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Miss  Aniue  Audc^J  dented   clocu-H 

tionist  ot  Kittery,  is  visiting  acquaintances  in  I 


I    this 


THE 


POETS    OF    PORTSMOUTH. 


COMPILED     BY 


AURIN  M.   PAYSON  AND  ALBERT  LAIGIITON. 


Siveet  are  the  memories  of  Home. 


BOSTON: 
WALKER,    WISE,    AND     COMPANY. 

PORTSMOUTH  :     JOS.    II.    FOSTER. 
lS65. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 

WALKER,   WISE,   AND   CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
No.  15,  Water  Street. 


TO    THE 


Sons  nnti  Qaucfljtcrs  0f  ^ortsmautlj,  SL  j)., 


AT    HOME    AND     ABROAD, 


THIS     VOLUME    IS    DEDICATED 


BY  THE  COMPILERS. 


PREFACE. 


IN  offering  this  volume  to  the  public,  while  we  would 
put  forth  no  extravagant  claims  in  its  behalf,  we  can 
not  deny  that  we  regard  it  as  indicating  a  high  average 
order  of  taste,  sentiment,  culture,  and  poetical  ability 
in  the  writers.  It  must  be  remembered,  that,  of  the 
entire  number,  not  more  than  four  or  five  have  placed 
themselves  prominently  before  the  world  as  candidates 
for  fame  ;  that  most  of  them  have  made  poetry  their 
pastime,  and  not  even  one  among  their  occupations ; 
and  that  the  pieces  now  gathered  were,  for  the  most 
part,  literally  fugitive  pieces,  —  some  written  with  no 
view  to  publication,  others  prepared  only  for  the  brief 
life  which  the  weekly  or  daily  newspaper  might  give 
them.  Yet,  among  these  last,  there  are  not  a  few 
which  the  public  will  not  let  die. 

It  will  be  seen  that  all  but  two  of  the  poets  here 
represented  belong  to  the  present  generation,  and  that 


vi  PREFACE. 

the  greater  part  of  them  are  still  living.  Dr.  HAVEN 
and  JONATHAN  MITCHELL  SEWALL  were  the  only 
Portsmouth  poets  of  the  last  century  whose  collected 
poems  have  come  down  to  us  ;  nor  can  we  add  to  the 
list,  from  any  tradition  that  has  reached  us.  But  the 
last  half-century  has  been  throughout  a  period  of  great 
literary  activity  in  our  community.  Not  to  speak  of  the 
elder  among  our  living  poets,  to  whom  we  trust  like 
praise  will  be  rendered  at  some  distant  day,  Ports 
mouth  was  greatly  indebted  to  NATHANIEL  APPLE- 
TON  HAVEN  for  the  impulse  given  in  every  direction 
of  high  culture,  and  especially  for  the  institution  and 
successful  management  of  at  least  two  literary  socie 
ties,  by  whose  exercises  the  habit  of  composition  was 
invited  and  cultivated,  while,  at  the  same  time,  a  dis 
criminating  taste  received  its  development  and  educa 
tion.  In  later  years,  two  chronic  invalids,  suffei'ers 
beyond  measure,  with  minds  only  the  brighter  and 
clearer  for  the  severe  ordeal, — JAMES  KENNARD,  jun., 
and  CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS,  —  were  largely 
influential  in  creating  and  directing  literary  ambition  ; 
they  themselves  beguiling  else  weary  months  of  seclu 
sion  from  the  outward  world  by  book  and  pen,  and 
inspiring  in  the  numerous  friends  that  sought  their 
society  the  desire  for  kindred  pursuits.  To  others  of 
the  departed,  we  would  gladly  offer  the  meed  of  grate 
ful  eulogy ;  and  we  regret  that  we  cannot,  without 
violating  conventional  propriety,  express  our  friendly 


PREFACE.  vii 

and  high  appreciation  of  those  of  the  living  whose 
intimacy  has  been  our  privilege  and  pleasure.  We 
send  the  book  forth  with  satisfaction  and  pride,  and 
can  ask  nothing  better  than  that  our  city  may  be  judged 
by  its  p(5ets. 

A.  P.  P. 


CONTENTS. 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

PAGE 

Piscataqua  River i 

Before  the  Rain 2 

The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell 3 

The  Crescent  and  the  Cross 7 

Lamia 8 

Pythagoras 9 

The  Tragedy 13 

Palabras  Cariiiosas 15 

The  Lunch 16 


REV.  J.   G.   ADAMS. 

Strive  to  make  the  World  better 17 

Sabbath  Evening  by  the  Sea-side    . 19 

The  Last  Patch  of  Snow 20 

To  mv  Sleeping  Boy 21 

Christian  Toil 24 

Death  of  N.  P.  Rogers  .     .  26 


REV.    CHARLES   BURROUGHS,   D.D. 

Lake  George 28 

An  Indian  Lament 29 

Niagara  Falls 31 

Mount  Washington 34 


x  CONTENTS. 

REV.    C.    BURROUGHS,    D.D.    (continued). 

PAGE 

A  Morning  Prayer 35 

Daily  Duties 36 

Meditations 37 

MICHAEL  W.   BECK. 

The  World  as  it  is 39 

The  Soul 40 

The  Indian  Summer 41 

To  a  Snow-bird 42 

The  Summer  Wind 43 

The  First  Bird  of  Spring 44 

My  Old  Yellow  Vest 45 

The  Soliloquy,  —  Yes  or  No? 46 

ESTHER  W.   BARNES. 

The  Ocean 48 

The  Sea-shell 50 

Sea-mosses 51 

The  Bark,  and  the  Blade  of  Grass 52 

Oh!  visit  me  in  Dreams 53 

The  Moonbeam 55 

MRS.    SARAH   ROBERTS   BOYLE. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass 58 

The  Deserted  Nursery 60 

The  City  Rose  to  the  Wild  Rose 62 

The  Blind  Man  to  his  Wife 64 

"  I  heard  a  Voice  saying  unto  me,  Come  up  hither"      .     .  66 

Our  Rest 68 

CHARLES   W.   BREWSTER. 

The  Vane  of  the  Old  North  Church 70 

The  Infant  Twins 72 

History  of  News  —  Birth  of  the  Press 74 

The  Locomotive  and  the  Snow-flakes 77 


CONTENTS.  xi 
MARY   CUTTS. 

PAGE 

Sea-shells 79 

Song Si 

The  Fated 82 

SAMUEL   M.   DEMERITT. 

Forgiveness 83 

To  -              '    ....  84 

God  and  our  Neighbor 84 


DANIEL  A.   DROWN. 

Spring  is  coming ' 85 

May 87 

Musings  on  the  Close  of  the  Year 88 

Dew  on  the  Grass 90 

"  Pax  Vobiscum  " gi 


JAMES   T.    FIELDS. 

Ballad  of  the  Tempest 93 

To  T.  S.  K 9,4 

On  a  Book  of  Sea-mosses g5 

Wordsworth 96 

"  The  Stormy  Petrel " 97 

An  Invitation 98 

Spring  among  the  Hills gg 

On  a  Pair  of  Antlers  brought  from  Germany 100 

Relics 101 

Song  in  a  Dream 101 

M.  W.  B 102 

The  Flight  of  Angels 102 

Common  Sense 103 

To  my  Little  Friend  at  the  South  End 104 

Marian  in  her  Cell 105 

Lot  Skinner's  Elegy 106 

The  Old  Year    .                                                                           .  108 


xii  CONTENTS, 

WOODBURY   M.   FERNALD. 

PAGE 

Tribute  of  Affection  to  the  late  Rev.  Thomas  Starr  King  109 

Beauty  of  Character in 

My  Soul  and  Me 112 

A  Vision  of  the  Eternal  Glory 114 

Loneliness II5 

The  American  Flag 117 


SARAH    II.    FOSTER. 

August,  1864 120 

St.  Paul  at  Rome 122 

The  Crown  of  Thorns 123 

The  Cricket 124 

The  Chant  of  Ocean     .  126 


FANNIE   E.   FOSTER. 

The  Poet's  Grave 128 

The  Blind  Man's  Cry 129 

I  will  not  Fear  to  Die 130 

REV.    SAMUEL   HAVEN,   D.D. 

On  Resignation  and  Hope  in  God  under  Troubles  .     .     .  131 

On  Evil  Surmisings 132 

The  Praise  of  Angels 133 

On  the  Question  being  asked,  —  What  Title  shall  be 
given  to  President  Washington,  on  his  Visit  to  Ports 
mouth  ? 134 

NATHANIEL   APPLETON   HAVEN. 

A  Fragment 135 

Psalm  CXXX 136 

Lines  on  Autumn 137 

'The  Purse  of  Charity  .     .     : 138 

Hymn  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1813 139 

Stanzas 140 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

CAROLINE   ELIZABETH  JENJ4ESS. 

PAGE 

The  Flowers  of  my  Garden 142 

Repose 146 

Fear  not 147 

Love  flies 148 

Epitaph 149 

Christmas  Hvmn 150 

The  Fountain  of  Youth 151 

The  Ploughman's  Daughter 153 

Ministry  of  Grief 154 


HARRIET  McEWEN   KIMBALL. 

The  Two  Cities 155 

Day  Lilies •  .  157 

The  Last  Appeal 159 

Good  News 160 

Woman 161 

Trust 163 

All's  Well 163 

My  Wish 164 

The  Singer 164 

The  Guest 165 

The  Old  Year  of  the  Nation  166 


JAMES   KENNARD,  JUN. 

Midnight  Musings 168 

A  Sail  on  the  Piscataqua 171 

What  shall  I  ask  in  Prayer? 173 

The  Ballad  of  Jack  Ringbolt 176 

Part  Second 180 

Part  Third 182 

To-  - 183 

Wreck  of  the  "  Seguntum  " 185 

Sad  Hours 188 

Death  on  the  Pale  Horse  .  180 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

ALBERT   LAIGHTON. 

PAGE 

The  Missing  Ships 192 

The  Summer  Shower 194 

To  mj  Soul 196 

In  the  Woods 197 

Found  Dead .  198 

New  England 199 

Joe 200 

Ebb  and  Flow 201 

My  Native  River 202 

The  Midnight  Voice 203 

In  Memoriam 204 

The  Necropolis 205 

The  Aurora  Borealis 206 

To  a  Bigot 207 

The  Dead 208 

The  Veiled  Grief 208 

The  Chimes 209 

Song  of  the  Skaters 210 

Under  the  Leaves • 211 

An  Invocation 212 

The  Wreck 213 


BENJAMIN   D.    LAIGHTON. 

Lines  written  in  May 214 

Stanzas 216 

The  First-born 217 


MARY   E.   B.   MILLER. 

On  Life's  Threshold 219 

Comfort 221 

The  Book  of  Life 222 

Little  Josey's  Grave 223 

Nightfall 224 

Evening  Aspirations 225 

Snow 227 


COXTENTK.  xv 
THOMAS   P.    MOSES. 

PAOE 

rl'o  a  Miniature  of  the  Departed 229 

The  Returned  Ring 230 

Sympathy' 231 

JOHN   N.    MOSES. 

The  Midnight  Voice 232 

JAMES    R.    MAY. 

At  Yorktown 236 

CATHERINE   M.    McCLINTOCK. 

Wherefore  ? 239 

Faith 241 

Djath  in  Spring 242 

EDWARD   P.    NOWELL. 

The  Deserted  Homestead 244 

Winter 246 

To  John  B.  Gough 247 

Ptean  for  Victory 248 

In  Memoriam 249 

The  Sea 250 

The  Old  Oaken  Cradle 251 

Child  and  Cherub 252 

Rocky  Glen 253 

MRS.    C.    E.    R.    PARKER. 

Lost  and  Won 2*54 

'•Lord,  is  it  I?" 256 

Thine  for  ever 2=57 

The  Old  Kitchen-fire 259 

Blue  Flowers 261 

Good  Night,  Little  Daughter,  Good  Night ! .-62 

My  Cross 263 


xvi  '  CONTENTS. 

MRS.    C.    E.    R.   PARKER   (continued}. 

TAOK 

Under  the  Snow 264 

Our  Lamb 265 

Night 267 

MRS.   ADELAIDE   E.   M.    PARKER. 

The  Benighted  Traveller 268 

A  Prayer 271 

The  Vagaries  of  a  Dream 272 

The  Divine  Comforter 275 

Song 276 

To  a  Friend 277 

AURIN   M.    PAYSON. 

Sedes  Musarum 278 

The  Suffering  Poor 280 

The  Character  of  Napoleon 283 

The  Pulse  of  Freedom 286 

EDWARD   A.    RAND. 

Pond-lilies 289 

Rain  on  the  Roof 290 

Waiting 291 

Peace 292 

The  Mist 293 

Gone 293 

JONATHAN  M.    SEWALL. 

The  Transfiguration 295 

Extract  from  "  Epilogue  to  Cato  " 296 

On  the  Gloomy  Prospects  of  1776 297 

Paraphrase  on  the  Last  Chapter  of  Ecclesiastes ....  298 

On  a  Quack  who  died  of  Asthma 299 

The  Seasons 300 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

JONATHAN   M.    SEWALL    (continued}. 

PAGE 

Anniversary  Song 301 

To  S.  S.,  Esq 302 

To  a  Lady  singing 303 

Psalm  XCIII 304 

Epigram 305 

Epitaph  on  a  Pettifogger 305 

B.    P.    SHILLABER. 

The  Three  Locks 306 

The  Spring  on  the  Shore 308 

Benevolence 310 

The  Little  Rivulet 311 

Spirit  Longing 313 

A  Picture 315 

An  Analogy 317 

Frenchman's  Lane 319 

Ballad  about  Bunker 321 

A  Courting  Reminiscence 323 

The  Dismissal 325 

Grape-skins 327 

Poor  Boy ! 328 

Master  Weeks's  Old  Ferule 330 

Transmutation 333 

Bless  You ! 335 

LOUISA   SIMES. 

To  a  Child 337 

To  a  Thoughtful  Bride 338 

To  an  Early  Rose 341 

To  J.  K.  C 342 

The  New  Year 343 

Stanzas 346 

One  in  Sympathy 349 

Life 350 

It  is  better  to  be  remembered  in  the  Prayer  of  the  Poor 

than  in  the  Praises  of  the  King 352 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

LOUISA    SIMES    (continued'). 

PAGE 
There  is  a  Might  in  the  Present,  of  which  we  dream  not 

till  it  be  past 354 

To  a  Friend  in  Sadness 356 

••The  First  Gray  Hair" 357 

To  a  Friend  at  Parting 358 

ELIZA   O.    SHORES. 

On  visiting  the  Scenes  of  Early  Life 360 

Reflections  on  the  Close  of  the  Year 361 

The  Hour-glass 362 

WILLIAM   B.    TAPPAX. 

The  Old  North  Burial  Ground  in  Portsmouth,  N.II.    .     .  364 

An  Oath  on  Woman's  Lips 367 

Gethsemane 368 

Walking  on  the  Sea 369 

There  is  an  Hour  of  Peaceful  Rest 370 

For  America 371 

The  West 372 

The  Angel's  Wing 374 

The  Nativity 376 

Wake,  Isles  of  the  South 377 

The  Thunder-storm 378 

JAMES   P.    WALKER. 

Seven  Years  to-day 379 

New  Friends  and  Old 380 

Necessities  and  Luxuries 381 

To  Lillie  G 384 

To  my  Wife 385 

MRS.    CAROLINE    E.    WHITON. 

May 386 

Summer  Sunset 388 

Autumn  Sunset 388 


MRS.    C.    E.    WHTTON    (continued}. 

PAOB 

Mv  Flowers 389 

Indian  Summer 391 

The  Lost  Verse 392 

Our  Country 393 

We  are  Three 39 ^ 

My  Neighbor 396 


MRS.  JULIA   VAN   NESS    WHIPPLE. 

The  Voice  amid  the  Trees 398 

Winter 400 

Easter  Sunday 401 


S.    ADAMS    WIGGIN. 

Love 403 

Victory 404 


POETS     OF     PORTSMOUTH. 


POETS  OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THOMAS    BAILET   ALDRICH. 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER. 


singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods  and  fields  of  corn  ; 
Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 


But  I,  within  a  city,  —  I, 
So  full  of  vague  unrest,  — 

Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 
An  hour  upon  thy  breast  ; 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapped  in  dreamy  joy, 

Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy  ! 
1 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores  ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town, 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires  ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white  ; 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River,  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods  and  fields  of  corn  ! 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain, 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  ; 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  am  known. 


BEFORE   THE   RAIN. 

WE  knew  it  would  rain  ;  for,  all  the  morn, 
A  spirit,  on  slender  ropes  of  mist, 

Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens,  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain  ;  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind,  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL. 


HAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 
Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even,  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  \vhich  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven  ! 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers,  —  those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels  ! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

ii. 

She  came,  and  brought  delicious  May. 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves  ; 
Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 
And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 
Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 
Oh  !  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 

And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours. 

in. 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell ! 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day  ! 
What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes  ! 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  ! 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 
So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise  ! 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more  : 
Ah  !  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen,  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn  ! 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise), — 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDEICH. 

For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 
And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Dear  Christ !  —  our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 

IV. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime  ; 
The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange  ; 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Babie  Bell. 
Her  lissom  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face  ! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came  ; 
But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  : 
Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame  ! 

v. 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  riortals  of  her  speech  ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words, 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us  ; 
We  never  held  her  being's  key  ; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things  : 
She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


VI. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees  : 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell,  — 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 

And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God  ! 
Teach  us  to  bend,  and  kiss  the  rod, 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah  !   how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell : 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 


VII. 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger,  — 
The  messenger  from  unseen  lands  : 
And  -what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair ; 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,  — 
Wrapped  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers  ! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours  ! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICII. 


THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS. 

KIND  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Remembered  me  with  such  a  gracious  hand, 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent,  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  tawny  bosom  of  a  queen. 

No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast ; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turbaned  slave  shall  envy  and  adore. 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar,  brought  from  Lebanon  ; 

Once  borne,  perchance,  by  some  pale  monk,  who  trod 

The  desert  to  Jerusalem  —  and  his  God  ! 

Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 
Each  meaning  something  to  our  human  needs  ; 
Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 
By  tears  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom  and  death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me  ! 
The  waning  Crescent  lacks  divinity  : 
It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 
Of  women  shut  in  hushed  seraglios. 

But,  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me  ; 
And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom,  — 
The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb  ! 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


LAMIA. 

Go  on  your  way,  and  let  me  pass. 

You  stop  a  wild  despair  : 
I  would  that  I  were  turned  to  brass, 

Like  that  grim  dragon  there,  — 

Which,  couchant  by  the  postern  gate, 

In  weather  foul  or  fair, 
Looks  down  serenely  desolate, 

And  nothing  does  but  stare  ! 

Ah  !  \vhat's  to  me  the  burgeoned  year, 

The  sad  leaf  or  the  gay  ! 
Let  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 

Their  falcons  fly  this  day. 

'Twill  be  as  royal  sport,  pardie, 

As  falconers  have  tried 
At  Astolat ;  —  but  let  me  be  ! 

I  would  that  I  had  died. 

I  met  a  woman  in  the  glade  : 
Her  hair  was  soft  and  brown, 

And  long  bent  silken  lashes  weighed 
Her  ivory  eyelids  down. 

I  kissed  her  hand,  I  called  her  blest, 

I  held  her  leal  and  fair  : 
She  turned  to  shadow  on  my  breast, 

And  melted  in  the  air ! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDEICH. 

And,  lo  !  about  me,  fold  on  fold, 
A  writhing  serpent  hung,  — 

An  eye  of  jet,  a  skin  of  gold, 
A  garnet  for  a  tongue  ! 

Oh  !  let  the  petted  falcons  fly 

Right  merry  in  the  sun  ; 
But  let  me  be  !  for  I  shall  die 

Before  the  year  is  done. 


PYTHAGORAS. 

ABOVE  the  petty  passions  of  the  crowd, 

I  stand  in  frozen  marble  like  a  god, 

Inviolate,  and  ancient  as  the  moon. 

The  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 

Fills  my  deep  dreaming.     Let  him  moan*  and  die  ; 

For  he  is  dust  that  shall  be  laid  again  : 

I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 

Strewn  on  the  breezy  continents  I  see 

The  veined  shells  and  burnished  scales  which  once 

Inwrapped  my  being,  —  husks  that  had  their  use  ; 

I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 

Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go : 

For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 

The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 

The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 


10  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 
Roaming  the  universe,  a  tireless  Voice. 
I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were  ; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon  ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  in  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida  ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant  glooms,  I  dwelt ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 
A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 

Ploughed  through  the  brine,  and  from  those  solitudes 
Sent  Silence,  frightened.     To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  heard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 
The  stormy  sea-gods  ;  and  from  fluted  conchs 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 
Some  moaning  and  some  singing.     So  the  years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine,  and  split  the  iron  rock  ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bird, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted  :   so  we  fled, 
Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-£ods  left  behind  ! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.        11 

Free  as  the  air,  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew, 
Far  from  the  tumult,  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  daybreak  ;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ran  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands, 
And  here  and  there  a  hamlet,  a  white  rose, 
And  here  and  there  a  city,  whose  slim  spires 
And  palace-roofs  and  swollen  domes  uprose 
Like  scintillant  stalagmites  in  the  sun  : 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  ragged  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts, 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea, 
To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul? 
A  breath,  no  more.     And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price,  —  that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream, 
That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 
Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 
Leaped  headlong  down  a  precipice  ;  and  there, 
Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 
Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 
Than  any  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 
Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 
Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 
For  beauty  and  great  suffering ;  and  I  sung, 
I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and  then, 
Down  from  the  dewy  atmosphere,  I  stole, 


12  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  nestled  in  her  bosom.     There  I  slept 

From  moon  to  moon,. while  in  her  eyes  a  thought 

Grew  sweet  and  sweeter,  deepening  like  the  dawn,  — 

A  mystical  forewarning  !     When  the  stream, 

Breaking  through  leafless  brambles  and  dead  leaves, 

Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 

The  fruit  dropped  noiseless  through  the  autumn  night, 

I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do  : 

We  weep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die  ! 

So  was  it  destined  ;  and  thus  came  I. here, 

To  walk  the  earth  and  wear  the  form  of  Man, 

To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 

One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And,  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  every  thing  for  nought? 
No  !  let  me  sit  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like  sleep  ;  and,  though  I  waiting  starve, 
I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park  ; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul : 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDEICIL        13 


THE  TRAGEDY. 

LA     DAME     AUX    CAMELIAS. 

THE  "  Dame  with  the  Camelias,"  — 

I  think  that  was  the  play  ; 
The  house  was  packed  from  pit  to  dome 

With  the  gallant  and  the  gay, 
Who  had  come  to  see  the  Tragedy, 

And  while  the  hours  away. 

There  was  the  oily  Exquisite, 

With  gloves  and  glass  sublime  ; 
There  was  the  grave  Historian, 

And  there  the  man  of  Rhyme, 
And  the  surly  Critic,  front  to  front, 

To  see  the  play  of  Crime. 

And  there  was  pompous  Ignorance, 

And  Vice  in  Honiton  lace  ; 
Sir  Croesus  and  Sir  Pandarus,  — 

And  the  music  played  apace  : 
But,  of  all  that  crowd,  I  only  saw 

A  single,  single  face  !  — 

That  of  a  girl  whom  I  had  known 

In  the  summers  long  ago, 
When  her  breath  was  like  the  new-mown  hay, 

Or  the  sweetest  flowers  that  grow  ; 
When  her  heart  was  light,  and  her  soul  was  white 

As  the  winter's  driven  snow. 


14  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  there  she  sat  with  her  great  brown  eyes, 

They  wore  a  troubled  look  ; 
And  I  read  the  history  of  her  life 

As  it  were  an  open  book  ; 
And  saw  her  Soul,  like  a  slimy  thing 

In  the  bottom  of  a  brook. 

There  she  sat  in  her  rustling  silk, 

With  diamonds  on  her  wrist, 
And  on  her  brow  a  trembling  thread 

Of  pearl  and  amethyst. 
"  A  cheat,  a  gilded  grief!  "  I  said  ; 

And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  mist. 

I  could  not  see  the  players  play  : 

I  heard  the  music  moan  ; 
It  moaned  like  a  dismal  autumn  wind, 

That  dies  in  the  woods  alone  ; 
And,  when  it  stopped,  I  heard  it  still,  — 

The  mournful  monotone  ! 

What  if  the  Count  were  true  or  false  ? 

I  did  not  care,  not  I ; 
What  if  Camille  for  Armand  died  ? 

I  did  not  see  her  die. 
There  sat  a  woman  opposite 

Who  held  me  with  her  eye  ! 

The  great  green  curtain  fell  on  all,  — 
On  laugh  and  wine  and  woe,  — 

Just  as  death  some  day  will  fall 
'Twixt  us  and  life,  I  know ! 

The  play  was  done,  the  bitter  play  ; 
And  the  people  turned  to  go. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  15 

And  did  they  see  the  Tragedy? 

They  saw  the  painted  scene  ; 
They  saw  Armand,  the  jealous  fool, 

And  the  sick  Parisian  quean  : 
But  they  did  not  see  the  Tragedy,  — 

The  one  I  saw,  I  mean  ! 

They  did  not  see  that  cold-cut  face, 

Those  braids  of  golden  hair  ; 
Or,  seeing  her  jewels,  only  said, 

"  The  lady's  rich  and  fair." 
But  I  tell  you,  'twas  the  Play  of  Life, 

And  that  woman  played  Despair  ! 


PALABRAS   CARINOSAS. 
Spanish  Air. 

GOOD-NIGHT  !  I  have  to  say  good  night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings  ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes  ; 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair  ; 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there.  — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good  night ! 


16  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

You  wish  the  time  were  now?     And  I. 

You  do,  not  blush  to  wish  it  so? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago.  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands  !  ah,  then, 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 


THE     LUNCH. 

.  A  GOTHIC  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and  uncertain  ; 
A  slab  of  agate  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance  ; 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Plump  grapes  hung  down,  dead-ripe  and  without  lus- 
A  melon  cut  in  thin  delicious  slices  ;  [tre  ; 

A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices ; 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey  ; 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words  —  and  very  pleasant  eating  ! 


REV.    J.    G.   ADAMS. 


STRIVE   TO   MAKE   THE   WORLD   BETTER. 

"  Take  the  world  as  it  is !  — there  are  good  and  bad  in  it, 
And  good  and  bad  will  be  from  now  to  the  end ; 
And  they  who  expect  to  make  saints  in  a  minute 
Are  in  danger  of  marring  more  hearts  than  they  mend. 
If  ye  wish  to  be  happy,  ne'er  seek  for  the  faults, 
Or  you're  sure  to  nnd  something  or  other  amiss  : 
'Mid  much  that  debases,  and  much  that  exalts, 
The  world's  not  a  bad  one,  if  left  as  it  is !  " 

CHARLES  SWAIX. 

TRIVE  to  make  the  world  better  !  —  this,  this 

is  the  duty 
Proclaimed   to  each  mortal   in   truth   every 

hour ; 

Call  not  its  wrong,  right,  —  its  deformity,  beauty  : 
In    the    midst    of   its    weakness,    remember    God's 

power. 
And,  though  in  a  minute  no  wrong  can  be  righted, 

Think  not  of  contentment  with  just  what  you  see  : 
The    world    needs    repentance,    where    souls    are    so 

blighted  ; 
And  what  it  is  now  is  not  what  it  must  be  ! 


"  Take  the  woi'ld  as  it  is  !  "     To  be  sure,  if  such  taking 
Will  win  you  the  heart  of  a  brother,  or  lend 

A  soft  word  or  kind  look  that  shall,  haply,  be  making 
Some  ruin-bound  pilgrim  his  life-ways  amend. 
2 


18  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

If  to  praise  it  shall  call  thee,  or  suffering  or  prayer, 
To  discipline  such  as  may  strengthen  thy  heart,  — 

Be  thankful  for  this,  every  way,  but  beware 

Lest  thy  world-taking  lesson  be  learned  but  in  part ! 

"  Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  "     So  the  world's  honored 
sages 

Of  many  a  clime  have  consented  and  taught ; 
So  walked  with  mankind  the  true  Guide  of  all  ages  ; 

So  lived  his  apostles,  and  labored  and  wrought,  — 
Yet  not  to  be  easy  with  present  attainments, 

Assenting  to  evil  in  lullaby  song, 

But,  rather,   to   startle,   with   Truth's   strong   arraign 
ments, 

The  victims  of  sin,  and  the  lovers  of  wrong ! 

"  Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  "     How  the   slothful  and 
sleeping 

Have  ever  consented  these  words  to  obey  ! 
Conservator  dolts  still  their  sluggish  steps  keeping, 

And  fearing  the  angel  Reform  in  their  way ! 
The  selfish  observer  of  manners  and  men, 

Who  would  never  offend  by  his  arrant  fault-finding, 
Provided  his  own  ends  are  answered  —  and  then, 

All  the  world  is  but  good,  and  its  faults  not  worth 
minding ! 

Strive  to  make  the  world  better !     How  true  to  this 

aim 
Have  the   heroes   of  Right  kept  their  way   in   the 

past : 
'Mid  the  world's    accusations,  through   dungeon   and 

flame, 
Abroad  have  the  seeds  of  their  greatness  been  cast ! 


REV.  J.    G.  ADAMS.  19 

And  we  have  the  harvest,  —  their  word  have  we,  too, 
That  the  seed-time  for  us  is  to-day !  Let  it  be 

That  the  world  we  now  have,  though  so  goodly  to  view, 
Is  not  that  improved  one  to-morrow  shall  see  ! 


SABBATH   EVENING   BY  THE   SEA-SIDE. 

ALONE,  my  God,  alone  with  thee, 

At  this  bright  sabbath  evening  hour, 
Where  the  strong  voices  of  the  sea 

Declare  thy  greatness  and  thy  power ! 
I  have  been  in  thy  courts  to-day, 

Where  mortals  meet,  thy  name  to  bless  ; 
And  where,  with  one  accord,  they  pay 

Their  homage  to  thy  holiness. 
Now  to  these  outer  courts  I  come, 

Alone  at  this  rock-altar,  Lord, 
Beneath  this  ample  evening  dome, 

To  hear  thee  speak  thy  wondrous  word. 
That  word  the  waves  are  uttering  clear 

In  their  full  accents  at  my  feet, 
While  notes  of  woodland  warblers  near 

Are  with  thy  glorious  name  replete. 
On  sunlit  spire  and  roof  and  shore, 

And  sail  that  stains  the  dark-blue  sea, 
And  red  horizon  spread  out  o'er 

That  emblem  of  eternity,  — 
I  read  thy  brightness,  God  of  love, 

And,  in  this  matchless  temple,  raise 
Anew  my  feeble  thought  above, 

In  silent  evening  prayer  and  praise. 


20  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Thy  mercies  to  my  soul  extend, 

Whose  strength  is  nought  without  thy  power  ; 
Loved  ones  and  dear  from  ill  defend, 

And  draw  to  thee,  at  this  blest  hour  ; 
To  friend  and  foe  thy  peace  be  given  ; 

The  weak  make  strong,  the  simple  wise  ; 
Be  to  the  poorest,  wealth  of  heaven  ; 

To  lameness,  strength  ;  to  blindness,  eyes. 
As  sheds  this  sun  its  rays  divine 

O'er  hill,  and  shore,  and  widening  sea, 
So  may  thy  truth  in  mercy  shine, 

Wherever  man  on  earth  may  be  ! 
As  flow  these  everlasting  waves, 

Bearers  of  life,  from  shore  to  shore, 
So  may  that  grace,  which  seeks  and  saves, 

Flow  full  and  free  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Till  in  this  temple,  all  thine  own, 

No  soul  shall  false  or  faithless  be, 
But  man's  heart-worship  at  thy  throne 

Complete  the  world's  great  harmony  ! 


THE  LAST  PATCH  OF  SNOW. 

TINY  memento  of  the  winter's  reign, 
Reposing  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
Ere  thou  hast  left  us,  ne'er  to  come  again, 
Past  scenes  and  seasons  let  thy  face  recall,  — 

Days,  when  that  robe  of  which  thou  art  a  shred 
Lay  everywhere  the  hills  and  valleys  o'er  ; 
When  winter's  hosts  were  to  the  war-field  led,  — 
Her  drifting  squadrons  'mid  the  north  wind's  roar ; 


REV.  J.    G.  ADAMS. 

When  lake,  and  mountain-stream,  and  river  wide, 
The  frost-king's  potent  hand  had  gilded  bright 
With  silver  covering  o'er  the  glassy  tide, 
That  gleamed  in  day's  full  blaze,  or  moon-lit  night. 

By  drifts  beleagured  in  the  sheltering  home, 
How  blest  the  peace  and  comfort  there  enjoyed  ! 
W'here  the  rude  blast  intrusive  cannot  come, 
And  love's  best  sympathies  are  well  employed. 

And  yet,  again,  I  think  of  want  and  woe, 
O'er  which  that  fading  winter  garb  was  spread, 
Unpitied  suffering,  or  where  Mercy's  glow 
Relights  the  hearth-fire,  wakes  to  life  the  dead. 

Soon,  wintry  visitant,  and  thovi  art  gone  : 
These  April  rays  will  give  thee  flight  ere  noon, 
And  in  thy  sleeping-place  shall  there  be  born 
The  healthful  buds  and  beauteous  flowers  of  June. 

Death's  winter  thus  writh  man  must  have  its  reign, 
Its  cold  shroud  wrap  this  perishable  clay  ; 
But  heavenly  spring-time  shall  appear  again, 
And  its  last  lingering  vestige  melt  away. 


TO   MY   SLEEPING   BOY. 

LOVED  sleeping  one  !   "  'tis  passing  strange 
That  pen  and  wakened  minstrelsy, 

In  their  incessant  toil  and  range, 

Have  uttered  no  sweet  song  for  thee. 

WThy  this  ?     I  surely  cannot  tell, 

And  herewith  break  the  mystic  spell. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

A  parent's  welcome  greets  thee,  boy, 
With  heart  and  eye  upraised  to  heaven 

In  thanks  of  gratitude  and  joy, 

That  them  in  goodness  hast  been  given 

To  cheer  life's  way,  and  recompense 

Our  toil  with  thy  glad  innocence. 

Yet  as  my  soul,  in  gratitude 

That  them  wert  born,  goes  up  to  God, 
Emotions  sadder  far  intrude, — 

The  Future,  child,  thou  hast  not  trod. 
That  way  before  thee  ;  —  what  will  be 
Thy  late  or  early  destiny? 

Is  it  that  thou  hast  come  to  bless 
Our  nightly  pillow  with  thy  breath, 

Our  day-dreams  with  thy  loveliness,  — 
Then  to  depart  in  early  death  ? 

Loved  boy,  is  this  —  is  this  thy  doom,  — 

An  infant's  bier,  an  infant's  tomb  ? 

Ah  !   now  I  know  what  sympathies 
Flow  ever  round  the  parent's  heart : 

Affection's  deepest  fount  will  rise, 

And  warmest  tears  unbidelen  start ;  — 

That  innocent  and  gladsome  face 

For  ever  paled  in  death's  embrace  ! 

Or  if  thou  shouldst  not  early  die, 
And  longer  life  to  thee  be  given, 

If  manhood  and  old  age  now  lie 

Along  thy  path  from  earth  to  heaven,  — 

What  words  of  truth  do  they  declare 

Of  thee,  —  the  sorrowful  or  fair? 


REV.  J.    G.   ADAMS.  23 

For  well  I  know,  that  in  this  world 

Just  entered,  pilgrim  boy,  by  thee, 
Sin's  blood-stained  banner  is  unfurled 

Where  thy  light  footsteps  soon  may  be  ; 
And  multitudes  will  seek  to  lure 
Thee  to  destruction  swift  and  sure. 

And,  when  temptation's  hour  shall  come, 

A  father's  voice,  a  mother's  care, 
May  not  forewarn  ;  or,  if  thy  home 

Their  earthly  presence  still  may  share, 
Perchance  e'en  their  unsleeping  love 
A  shield  from  danger  may  not  prove. 

I've  known  so  many  bright  joys  dimmed, 
Such  ruin  made  of  hopes  high-flushed, 

Hearts  drugged  with  woe  when  almost  brimmed 
With  bliss,  and  strongest  virtues  crushed, 

That  I  do  tremble  as  I  see 

Thy  future  coming  thus  to  me. 

Then  will  I  give  thee  up  to  Him 

Whose  eye  in  heaven's  own  light  doth  run 

From  highest  rank  of  seraphim 
To  lowest  grade  beneath  the  sun  ; 

Whose  name  is  Love,  whose  watchful  care 

The  feeblest  of  his  children  share. 

If,  from  this  infant  home  of  thine, 

It  please  him  early  to  remove 
Thy  young  soul  hence,  to  dwell  and  shine 

Among  the  purified  above  ; 
And,  if  thy  little  voice  no  more 
Should  greet  us  on  this  pilgrim  shore,  — 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

A  parent's  trusting  heart  will  know, 
That  he  who  gave  and  takes  away, 

Can  joy  impart  for  keenest  woe, 
And  strength  all  equal  to  our  day  ; 

And  that,  amid  our  tears  for  thee, 

Shall  shine  thine  immortality  ! 

Or,  if  long  life  to  thee  be  given 

Rather  than  ease  or  wealth  or  fame, 

For  thee,  my  child,  I  ask  of  Heaven 

A  Christian's  life,  —  a  Christian's  name  ; 

A  soul  made  strong  in  Virtue's  might, 

And  ever  toiling  for  the  Right. 

This  sure,  I  bid  solicitude 

For  thee  depart :  why  should  I  not? 
If  thou  art  numbered  with  the  good, 

Thine  are  the  blessings  of  their  lot, 
Brighter  through  all  thy  future  way, 
To  cloudless,  endless,  perfect  day. 


CHRISTIAN   TOIL. 

IN  the  field  or  work-shop,  brother, 

In  the  mart  or  on  the  sea, 
Wheresoe'er  thy  life's  allotment, 

Toil,  nor  mourn  thy  destiny. 

In  thy  quiet  home,  fond  mother, 
Where  thy  loves  and  cares  abound, 

Labor  on,  though  often  weary  : 

Strengthening  angels  thee  surround  ! 


REV.  J.    G.  ADAMS.  25 

Statesman,  for  thy  nation  toiling, 

Where  the  world  thy  name  shall  see  ; 

Lowliest  minister  of  mercy, 
Who  at  misery's  bed  would  be,  — 

All,  of  every  grade  and  honor,  — 

Know  the  work  your  hands  should  do  : 

"  Go,  and  labor  in  my  vineyard," 
Is  God's  present  word  to  you. 

Thus  we  read  our  Christian  duty  : 

Work  for  daily  bread  alone 
Is  not  all  of  life's  great  mission, 

As  the  Master's  word  hath  shown. 


"  Labor  for  the  meat  enduring  :  " 
This  the  mandate  from  above, 

Enter  thou  the  Spirit-conflict ; 
Labor  in  the  Life  of  Love. 


Much  to  do  behold  before  ye  ! 

Error,  meanness,  sin,  and  shame, 
All  await  their  destination,  — 

The  Reformer's  axe  and  flame  ! 


Nerve  thy  heart  and  hand  to  action  ; 

Be  thy  soul  within  aright  ; 
Then  God's  blessing  shall  attend  thee 

In  the  labor  and  the  fiecht  ! 


POETS  OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


DEATH  OF  N.  P.  ROGERS. 

A  LIGHT  in  Freedom's  temple  dimmed  ! 

A  star  gone  from  our  northern  sky  ! 
A  requiem  for  the  noble,  hymned 

In  Love's  deep  harmony  ! 

No  little  earthly  king  is  dead  ; 

No  warrior  in  blood-contest  slain  ; 
But  one  whose  hero-soul  was  wed 

To  Truth's  great  strife  and  gain  ; 

Who  not  with  zeal  for  seel:  or  clan 

In  stinted  words  his  message  brought ; 

But,  in  deep  love  for  suffering  man, 
Dared,  uttered,  lived,  and  wrought. 


He  scorned  what  others  might  allow, 

To  ask  what  Church  or  State  would  say, 

When  Wrong  was  bold  ;  —  the  Right !  and  now 
Let's  follow  and  obey  ! 

Though  small  the  day  when  first  he  gave 
True  heart  and  hand  in  manhood's  cause, 

Yet,  in  his  love  of  duty,  brave, 
He  could  not  quail  or  pause. 


REV.  J.    G.  ADAMS.  27 

By  silver  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  up  where  mountain  cloud-wreaths  hung, 

In  busy  mai't  and  hermit's  dream, 
His  pealing  trump-notes  rung. 

They  waked  the  echoes  far  and  near, 
Called  many  a  true-born  witness  forth  ; 

Life-soldier  in  this  new  career 
Of  Freedom  in  the  North. 


Brave  spirit !  more  like  thee  we  need 
In  this  our  world's  great  conflict-hour, 

To  sow,  with  trusting  hand,  Truth's  seed, 
And  wait  her  ripening  power. 


REV.    CHARLES  BURROUGHS,   D.D. 


LAKE    GEORGE. 

Written  on  board  the  Steamer  "  Caldrvcll"  on  Lake   George, 
July  2,  1845. 

WIFT  o'er  thy  waters,  Horicon, 
Our  gallant  bark  most  gayly  glides, 
While  isles  and  mountains,  verdure  clad, 
Are  passing  swiftly  at  our  sides. 

All  seems  a  pageant  of  romance, 
A  living,  brilliant  fairy  tale, 
As  if  the  spirits  from  above 
Peopled  this  lake,  each  hill  and  vale. 

Green  and  translucent  are  thy  waves, 
And  pure  as  sacramental  font 
Which  would  baptize  with  holy  love 
All  who  a  heavenly  spirit  want. 

Come,  all  who  would  the  world  renounce, 
Come  here,  your  hands  and  temples  lave  ; 
Some  bright  Archangel  spans  the  lake 
To  bless  with  sacred  hands  each  wave. 


REV.   CHARLES  BURROUGHS,   D.D.  29 

Rise  then,  renewed,  and  look  around 
On  all  that  meets  the  enchanted  eye  ; 
For  Nature  here  with  glorious  love 
Has  mixed  her  choicest  scenery. 

Miss  not  one  scene  of  Horicon, 
Lose  not  one  virtue  of  this  spot ; 
For  this  is  earth's  sweet  Paradise, 
The  foretaste  of  a  heavenly  lot. 

Xo  wonder  that  warm  Christian  zeal 
To  God's  dear  Church  thy  stream  has  sent, 
And  named  thee,  to  the  world's  delight, 
Lake  of  the  Holy  Sacrament. 

For  if,  with  holy  feelings  now 
O'er  thy  pure  breast  we  peaceful  glide, 
Each  spot  will  seem  with  glory  filled, 
And  God  through  life  will  be  our  guide. 

• 

Blessed  be  the  day  that  made  me  know 
Thy  brilliant  scenes  and  mighty  fame  ; 
For  peace  will  ever  fill  my  soul 
At  mention  of  thy  sacred  name. 


AN   INDIAN   LAMENT. 

On  the  Death  of  the  Sachem  Mogg,  -who  perished  in  Battle  at 
Black-Point  Garrison,  May  i6tk,  1677. 

REST,  Warrior,  rest ;  thy  work  is  now  done  : 
Our  cause  thou  hast  nobly  defended  ; 

Thy  soul  has  away  to  the  Great  Spirit  gone  ; 
And  we  mourn  that  thy  warfare  is  ended. 


30  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Not  a  bolder  in  war  ever  faced  a  fierce  foe  ; 

And  none  in  the  chase  did  exceed  him  : 
Always  true  in  his  aim,  always  swift  as  the  doe, 

Nor  mountain  nor  stream  could  impede  him. 

His  genius  was  lofty,  above  all  his  tribes  ; 

He  was  born  for  dread  war's  wild  commotion  ; 
His  name  on  her  temple  Fame  boldly  inscribes, 

For  his  conflicts  on  earth  and  on  ocean. 

Our  brother  is  gone,  and  our  spirits  now  quail ; 

There  is  none  to  exceed  him  in  glory  : 
Our  tribes  must  all  cease,  for  our  red  men  will  fail 

To  make  themselves  famous  in  story. 

We  groaned,  as  our  sachem  received  his  death-blow 
From  the  white  man,  that  cruelly  hates  us  : 

Our  chase  and  our  lands  we  must  all  now  forego  ; 
But  a  vengeance  more  dreadful  awaits  us. 

Wrap  our  chief  in  his  shroud  ;    lay  his  corse  in  the 
grave  ; 

Let  his  gun  and  his  pipe  be  placed  near  him  ; 
And,  when  he'll  awake  o'er  the  far  western  wave, 

He'll  find  game  and  green  fields  there  to  cheer  him. 

Let  us  speed  to  our  home  ere  the  close  of  this  day,    . 

And  repeat  to  our  children  our  sorrow  ; 
And  ask  the  Great  Spirit  to  take  us  away, 

Ere  we  wake  on  the  woes  of  to-morrow. 

Our  chief  now  we  leave  on  his  last  field  of  fame  : 
But  no  monument  need  we  raise  o'er  him  ; 

For  he  leaves  on  the  earth  an  illustrious  name, 
And  the  brave  will  for  ever  deplore  him. 


REV.    CHARLES  BURROUGHS,  D.J).  31 

NIAGARA   FALLS. 

there,  August  10,  1846. 


HARK  !  what  sounds  of  mighty  thunders  ! 

O'er  those  cliffs  an  ocean  pours  ! 
Mark  its  foaming  furious  surges, 

Booming  on  the  rocky  shores. 

Why  is  all  this  awful  tempest 

Of  Niagara's  flood  so  vast? 
Why  these  hurricanes  of  waters, 

Seeming  like  destruction's  blast? 

Hear  the  story  of  these  wonders  ; 

This  decree  did  God  proclaim  : 
"  Let  the  waters  here  be  gathered 

To  adore  my  glorious  name." 

Lakes  immense,  and  icebergs  melted 
From  the  stormy  northern  pole, 

Babbling  brooks,  and  countless  rivers, 
To  Niagara's  temple  roll. 

To  that  glorious  altar  move  they  : 
Not  \vith  slow,  reluctant  pace, 

But  with  eager  speed  and  transport 
Rush  they  to  that  sacred  place. 

All  their  garments  beam  with  splendor  ; 

Some  are  whiter  than  the  snow  : 
These  display  a  crimson  lustre  ; 

Those  like  brightest  emeralds  glow. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Some  are  graced  with  tints  of  azure  ; 

Those  with  amber,  these  with  green  ; 
Boundless  wreaths  of  glittering  diamonds 

O'er  Niagara's  robes  are  seen. 

Thus  the  stream,  all  clothed  with  glory, 
To  its  God  with  rapture  sings, 

And  the  heavenly  vaults  re-echo 
With  its  awful  thunderings. 

Then  ascend  thick  clouds  of  incense, 
Which  is  borne  on  angels'  wings, 

And  o'er  earth  the  richest  blessings 
With  unbounded  mercy  flings. 

Then  did  Christ  our  blessed  Saviour, 
For  those  harmonies  so  loud, 

Paint  the  rainbow's  radiant  beauties 
On  the  fleecy  incense-cloud. 

There  I  saw  the  bow  of  promise 
As  it  came  from  God's  right  hand  ; 

And  it  spread  its  arch  transcendent 
On  our  own  and  Britain's  land. 

Here  a  Church  has  Christ  creeled  ; 

All  these  sounds  are  praise  to  him  ; 
All  this  stream's  a  font  baptismal, 

And  its  drops  are  seraphim. 

These  grand  cliffs  are  altars  sacred 
To  that  God  who  reigns  above  ; 

All  this  rush  and  deafening  roaring 
Are  but  songs  of  holy  love. 


REV.    CHARLES  BURROUGHS,  D.D.  33 

All  these  foaming  crystal  surges 

I  lath  a  Saviour's  mercy  hurled 
O'er  those  craggy  heights,  to  christen 

And  redeem  a  fallen  world. 

It  is  wise  that  erring  mortals 

Should  frequent  these  wondrous  scenes, 
Here  to  see  the  God  of  Nature, 

And  to  learn  what  worship  means. 

'Tis  not  strange  that  red  men  always 
View  this  spot  as  God's  dread  home, 

And  their  pipes  and  beaded  wampums 
Humbly  offer  on  the  foam. 

'Tis  not  strange  that  unbelievers 

Here  betray  remorse  and  shame, 
And  confess  our  Lord's  dominion 

Over  cataract  and  flame. 

'Tis  not  strange  that  Christian  pilgrims 

Here  the  richest  blessings  know  ; 
Here's  the  hem  of  Christ's  bright  garment, 

Which,  when  touched,  will  grace  bestow. 

These  dread  scenes  portend  the  judgment, 
When  in  triumph  Christ  shall  come, 

With  a  voice,  like  mighty  \vaters, 
To  pronounce  earth's  endless  doom. 

Then,  O  God !  in  mercy  save  me 

From  thine  everlasting  frown, 
That  in  bliss  my  ears  may  hear  thee, 

And  my  eyes  behold  thy  crown. 
3 


34  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

Written  on  the   Summit  of  Mount    Washington,    Wednesday 
noon,  July  9,  1845. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  Mountain  !  thou  dost  stand  alone, 
The  loftiest  sentinel  that  guards  our  land  ; 
The  glorious  image  of  the  Eternal  One  ; 
The  work  sublime  of  his  Almighty  hand. 

On  every  side,  what  boundless  prospecls  rise  ! 
What  oceans  vast  of  mountain  scenery  ! 
What  dread  magnificence  of  earth  and  skies ! 
What  regions  of  unrolled  immensity  ! 

Now,  raised  above  earth's  cares  and  toil  and  din, 

I  sit  serene,  to  holy  musings  given  ; 

To  soar  in  bliss  above  this  world  of  sin, 

And  hold  communion  with  the  hosts  of  heaven. 

Right  well  thy  granite  pile  baptized  has  been, 
In  name  of  one  whose  virtues  none  assail ; 
Who  towered  in  glory  o'er  his  fellow-men, 
Like  thy  proud  summit  o'er  the  humble  vale. 

Thy  rocks,  unhurt,  have  felt  the  tempest's  power, 
And  lightnings  harmless  have  played  round  thy  form  ; 
So,  too,  our  Washington  in  war's  fierce  hour 
Did  breast  each  shock,  and  triumph  o'er  each  storm. 

Our  Nation's  boast !  Mount  of  eternal  stone  ! 
In  freedom,  truth,  and  virtue  may  we  stand, 
Exalted  like  thyself  and  Washington, 
The  pride  and  honor  of  our  blessed  land  ! 


REV.   CHARLES  BURROUGHS,  D.V.  35 


A   MORNING   PRAYER. 

As  from  my  couch  I  now  arise, 
And  grateful  view  the  earth  and  skies, 
Grant  me,  in  all  things,  Lord,  I  pray, 
Thy  glory  to  consult  this  day. 

At  meals,  at  prayer,  where'er  I  wend, 
What  hours  in  cares  or  joys  I  spend, 
Be  it  my  highest  joy  and  fame 
To  glorify  thy  blessed  name. 

Should  dangerous  snares  my  soul  assault, 
And  tempt  me  to  a  sin  or  fault, 
Oh,  keep  me  pure  in  a6l  and  word, 
Ever  to  honor  thee,  my  Lord  ! 

Should  any  sufferer  I  may  see 
Need  offices  of  love  from  me, 
Oh,  may  I  gladly  show  such  love, 
To  glorify  my  God  above  ! 

Should  sickness,  sorrows,  trials,  woes, 
Befall  me,  ere  this  day  shall  close, 
With  patience  may  I  bear  each  ill, 
And  bow  submissive  to  thy  will ! 

Dear  Lord,  may  all  my  labors  be 
Begun,  continued,  closed  in  thee, 
And  all  bring  glory  to  thy  name, 
And  give  me  endless  life  and  fame  ! 


36  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Then,  when  her  pall  Night  o'er  me  throws, 
And  on  my  couch  I  seek  repose, 
I'll  bless  thee  that  I  still  do  live 
New  glories  to  thy  name  to  give. 


DAILY    DUTIES. 

Version  of  a  Paper  written  in  French,  and  given  by  a  French 
Priest  to  an  humble  Female  Peasant  of  Savoy,  -who  allowed 
a  Traveller  to  take  a  Copy  of  it. 

Now  remember  what  I  say, 

Christian,  that  you  have  to-day 

Glory  to  your  God  to  pay  ; 

Christ  to  copy  and  obey  ; 

Love  for  angels  to  display  ; 

A  soul  to  save,  that's  gone  astray  ; 

All  the  body's  lusts  to  slay  ; 

To  God  for  every  grace  to  pray  ; 

Grief  for  every  sin  betray  ; 

To  Paradise  to  find  the  way  ; 

To  hell's  dark  borders  ne'er  to  stray  ; 

Dread  eternity  to  weigh  ; 

Time's  precious  value  to  survey  ; 

Nought,  but  what  is  good,  essay  ; 

Penitence  no  more  to  stay  ; 

Love  to  neighbors  to  convey  ; 

A  world  to  fear,  where  dangers  lay  ; 

Fiends  to  meet  in  fiei'ce  affray  ; 

All  your  passions  well  to  sway  ; 

And  perhaps  to  drop  this  clay, 

And  be  judged  without  delay. 


EEV.    CHARLES  BURROUGHS,  D.D.  37 


MEDITATIONS, 

While  sick  in  bed,  Communion  Sunday  Morning,  May  3,  1846  : 
suggested  by  my  unexpected  confinement  there,  and  the  con 
sequent  closing  of  my  Church. 

NOT  in  thy  Temple,  O  my  God  ! 

Bend  I  this  day  my  knee  ; 
Nor  lead  my  people  in  the  prayers 

Of  our  blest  Liturgy  ; 

Nor  break  to  them  the  Bread  of  Life  ; 

Nor  pour  the  sacred  wine  ; 
Nor,  in  the  glorious  chants  and  hymns, 

With  them  in  transport  join. 

Like  sheep  without  a  shepherd's  care, 

To  pastures  strange  they  roam  ; 
As  if  some  awful  destiny 

Had  visited  their  home. 

All  other  streams  of  healing  power 

Their  souls  will  ne'er  compare 
With  that  which  flows  from  Zion's  hill, 

Their  favorite  place  of  prayer. 

But  I,  thy  sinful  servant,  Lord  ! 

Denied  thy  courts  of  praise, 
Within  my  chamber's  quiet  walls, 

To  thee  my  soul  would  raise. 

Stretched  on  my  couch  by  thy  wise  will, 

This  sacred  spot  I'll  view, 
As  pulpit,  altar,  and  as  desk, 

To  brins:  each  ofterin":  due. 


38  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Here,  as  a  Priest,  I'll  worship  Christ, 
My  Saviour,  Guide,  and  Rock  ; 

And  make  my  couch  a  church,  to  bring 
Grace  on  myself  and  flock. 

Teach  us  submission  to  thy  hand, 

And  greater  love  for  thee, 
Thy  courts,  thy  day,  and  thy  dear  Son, 

That  Heaven  our  Church  may  be  ; 

Where  "  none  shall  say  that  he  is  sick  ;  " 
Where  tears  shall  never  flow  ; 

Where  all  shall  join  the  nuptial  song, 
And  endless  raptures  know. 


MI C HA  EL 


BECK. 


BORN,  Nov.  29,  1815 ;    DIKD,  MARCH  9,  1&13. 


THE   WORLD   AS   IT   IS. 

HIS  world  is  not  so  bad  a  world 

As  some  would  wish  to  make  it ; 
Though  whether  good,  or  whether  bad, 

Depends  on  how  we  take  it. 
For  if  we  scold  and  fret  all  day, 

From  dewy  morn  till  even, 
This  world  will  ne'er  afford  to  man 
A  foretaste  here  of  heaven. 

This  world  in  truth's  as  good  a  world 

As  e'er  was  known  to  any 
Who  have  not  seen  another  yet 

(And  these  are  very  many)  ; 
And  if  the  men  and  women  too 

Have  plenty  of  employment, 
Those  surely  must  be  hard  to  please, 

Who  cannot  find  enjoyment. 

This  world  is  quite  a  clever  world 

In  rain,  or  pleasant  weather, 
If  people  would  but  learn  to  live 

In  harmony  together ; 


40  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Nor  seek  to  break  the  kindly  bond 
By  love  and  peace  cemented, 

And  learn  that  best  of  lessons  yet, 
To  always  be  contented. 

Then  were  the  world  a  pleasant  world, 

And  pleasant  folks  were  in  it : 
The  day  would  pass  most  pleasantly 

To  those  who  thus  begin  it ; 
And  all  the  nameless  grievances 

Brought  on  by  borrowed  troubles 
Would  prove,  as  certainly  they  are, 

A  mass  of  empty  bubbles  ! 


THE     SOUL. 

WHENCE  came  the  intellectual  ray 

That  lights  the  eye  with  fire, 
That  earthward  will  not  bide  its  stay, 

But  heavenward  bids  aspire  ? 
Is  it  a  spark  from  God's  high  throne, 

Given  with  our  earliest  breath  ? 
And  will  he  claim  it  as  his  own, 

When  we  are  chilled  in  death  ? 

Oh,  precious  faith  !  cling  to  my  breast, 

A  hallowed  pilgrim  there  : 
When  to  my  bosom  thou  art  pressed, 

How  free  am  I  from  care  ! 
Let  sickness  rage,  let  pain  invade 

My  vitals  for  its  food, 
No  doubt  my  faith  shall  make  afraid, 

Nor  aught  be  mine  but  good. 


MICHAEL   W.  BECK.  41 

Through  death's  dark  valley  I  must  tread, 

Ere  youth's  fair  sun  is  set : 
Calmly  resigned,  I  bow  my  head, 

And  earth's  vain  joys  forget. 
The  spark  that  gleams,  the  jewelled  SOUL, 

The  casket  thrown  away, 
Shall  mingle  with  that  perfect  whole 

That  forms  God's  brightest  day  ! 


THE   INDIAN    SUMMER. 

IT  comes,  it  comes  with  golden  sheaf, 
In  the  time  of  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf; 
It  flings  the  fruit  from  the  bending  tree, 
And  scatters  it  round  in  reckless  glee  : 
It  plays  on  the  brow  of  the  maiden  fair, 
And  parts,  with  its  fingers,  her  raven  hair. 

It  comes,  it  comes  ;  and  its  minstrel's  wing 
O'er  the  glassy  lake  is  quivering 
With  music  soft  as  the  mellow  strain 
Of  zephyrs  over  the  swelling  main  : 
It  gladdens  the  vales  as  it  floats  along, 
And  stream  and  mountain  re-echo  the  song. 

It  comes,  it  comes  like  a  fairy  sprite 

Arrayed  in  robes  of  gossamer  white  ; 

And  the  carpet  of  leaves  on  the  ground  is  spread  ; 

And  the  flowers  yield  'neath  its  conquering  tread : 

For  it  strides  along  its  kingly  way, 

Like  shadows  that  flit  at  the  close  of  day. 


42  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

It  comes,  it  comes  ;  and  the  ripened  grain 
Is  weaving  crowns  for  its  golden  reign  ; 
And  the  bright  eye  sparkles  with  liquid  light, 
Like  the  star  enthroned  on  the  brow  of  night ; 
And  the  teeming  fields  their  offering  bring 
At  the  sainted  shrine  of  the  Autumn  king. 


TO   A   SNOW-BIRD. 

IN  what  far  region  is  thy  home, 

Fair  lady  of  the  snow-white  breast, 
That  far  away  thou  need'st  to  roam, 

And  wander  from  thine  own  soft  nest? 
Is  it  within  some  fairy  bower 

Where  one  unfading  summer's  smile, 
And  flashing  brook,  and  fragrant  flower, 

The  wanderer's  golden  hours  beguile  ? 

Or  is  it  where  the  icebergs  float 

'Mid  frozen  regions  far  away, 
Where  no  sweet  bird  with  minstrel  note 

Pours  forth  its  melancholy  lay? 
Is  this  thy  summer  wandering, 

Fair  pilgrim,  from  that  ice-bound  coast? 
Alas  !  a  weary  journeying 

Repays  thee  for  thy  labor  lost. 

Ah  !  cold  methinks  that  heart  must  be 
Within  that  bosom  fluttering  ; 

And  yet  thy  tones  right  merrily 
A  strain  of  gladness  seem  to  fling. 


MICHAEL   W.   BECK.  43 

What  though  the  Spirit  of  the  Snow 
Her  mantle  spreads  o'er  vale  and  hill  ? 

Thy  pleasant  song  imparts  a  glow 
That  mingles  in  the  bosom's  thrill. 

Where'er  thy  home,  a  welcoming 

From  many  a  heart  is  given  thee  : 
'Tis  thine,  the  humble  offering, 

Through  months  that  linger  wearily  ; 
And  when  the  joyous  notes  of  spring, 

And  richer  strains  than  thine  are  heard, 
Then  fondly  will  thy  visit  cling 

Around  our  memory,  winter  bird. 


THE   SUMMER  WIND. 
THE  summer  wind  of  a  summer  night ! 

O 

The  moon  is  up  ;  the  stars  shine  bright ; 

The  voice  of  music  is  floating  by, 

Filling  the  air  with  its  melody  ; 

The  grass  bends  low  'neath  the  grateful  blast, 

And  whispers  praise  as  it  rushes  past. 

The  summer  wind  of  a  summer  night ! 
Swelling  and  swelling  with  all  its  might,  — 
How  it  stoops  to  kiss  the  lowly  rose, 
And  wafts  its  fragrance  where'er  it  goes  ! 
How  it  bathes  its  brow  in  the  silvery  stream, 
And  awakens  to  life  the  wild  bird's  scream  ! 

The  summer  wind  of  a  summer  night ! 
Earth  seems  glad  at  the  sound  and  sight ; 


44  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  Nature's  children  —  all  are  hers  — 
Are  thronging  her  courts  as  worshippers, 
And  join  in  the  anthem  of  praise  ascending 
From  the  votaries  now  at  her  altar  bending. 

The  summer  wind  of  a  summer  night ! 
Away  from  the  world  the  thoughts  take  flight : 
On  airy  pinions  they  soar  away, 
Where  the  fountains  of  pleasure  ever  play, 
Where  the  waters  of  bliss,  as  onward  they  roll, 
Display  to  the  vision  the  home  of  the  soul. 


THE   FIRST   BIRD   OF   SPRING. 

I. 

THERE'S  music  on  the  breeze  ! 
Gently  it  steals  o'er  vale  and  moss-crowned  hill, 
And  sweetly  murmurs  o'er  the  mountain  rill, 

And  through  the  leafless  trees. 

ii. 

Hail,  harbinger  of  Spring  ! 
Let  gladsome  voices  in  the  olden  wood, 
And  elfin  shouts  'mid  Nature's  solitude, 

Their  pleasant  welcome  ring. 

in. 

Pour  forth  thy  minstrelsy, 
While  streamlets,  from  their  icy  fetters  free, 
And  joyful  sound  of  waters'  sportive  glee, 

Attest  thy  ministry  ! 


MICHAEL    W.   BECK.  45 

IV. 

'Tis  good  to  linger  here, 
And  listen  to  this  minister  of  love, 
Whose  thrilling  tones  of  sweetness  from  the  grove 

Fall  softly  on  the  ear. 

v. 

There's  magic  in  thy  voice  ! 
And  echoing  earth  her  thousand  vales  among, 
And  sea  and  air,  repeat  thy  simple  song,  — 

And  all  things  there  rejoice, 


MY   OLD   YELLOW   VEST. 

I  LOVE  it  of  all  my  old  relics  the  best ; 
Most  dearly  I  cherish  my  yellow  vest ; 
I've  worn  it  at  parties,  at  routs  and  balls  ; 
I've  worn  it  at  morning  and  evening  calls  ; 
I've  worn  it  when  threading  the  mazy  dance, 
Midst  the  blithesome  step  and  flashing  glance, 
Alas  !  not  an  eye  nor  a  step  do  I  see, 
Of  the  friends  of  my  youthful  revelry. 

I  wore  it  that  night  'neath  the  trysting-tree, 
When  the  stars  shone  out  most  brilliantly, 
And  I  my  burning  passion  confessed 
To  the  blushing  maid  I  clasped  to  my  breast : 
Ah  me,  alas  !   she  hath  long  lain  low 
'Neath  the  summer  rain  and  the  winter  snow ; 
And  I  never  can  gaze  on  that  yellow  vest, 
But  on  the  fair  vision  mine  eves  seem  to  rest. 


46  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Old  vest,  old  vest !  my  eye-sight  grows  dim  ; 
And  age  hath  touched  with  its  frost  each  limb  ; 
And  I  totter  on  in  an  old  man's  way, 
Impressed  with  the  finger  of  Time's  decay  ; 
But  ye  'mind  me  of  days  when  my  step  was  light, 
And  the  star  of  my  destiny  glimmered  bright ; 
And  I  feel  that  full  soon  I  shall  go  to  my  rest, 
And  leave  thee  behind  me,  my  old  loved  vest ! 

And  will  they  scorn  thee,  and  fling  thee  by, 
As  a  faded  thing  kept  uselessly? 
Alas  !  they  know  not  the  comfort  thou  art, 
Old  friend  I  have  worn  long  near  to  my  heart ; 
The  link  that  unites  in  memory's  chain 
With  the  past,  and  makes  me  young  again  : 
'Tis  an  old  man's  fancy,  —  oh  !  grant  his  behest, 
And  place  in  his  coffin  that  old  yellow  vest. 


THE   SOLILOQUY,— YES   OR  NO? 

BY  all  the  vows  he  made  to  me, 
His  earnest  suit  so  urgent  pressing ; 

By  all  his  tortured  agony 

Of  love,  which  seemed  indeed  distressing  j, 

By  all  the  passion's  ebb  and  flow,  — 

He  seeks  an  answer,  yes  or  no. 

By  all  the  dew-drops  of  the  Spring, 
And  notes  of  music,  joyous  thrilling  ; 

By  every  bird  upon  the  wing, 

And  every  note  of  gladness  trilling,  — 

By  all  above  and  all  below, 

I  dare  not  answer  yes  or  no. 


MICHAEL    W.  BECK.  41 

No  !  how  it  chills  the  soul  to  speak 

This  word,  the  very  blood  congealing ! 
And  this  poor  bosom's  far  too  weak 

To  cherish  such  a  want  of  feeling ; 
For  thoughts  of  bitter  grief  and  woe 
Will  mingle  with  that  sad  word,  no. 

Yes  !  there  is  rapture  in  the  sound  ; 

It  breathes  of  joy,  of  mirth  and  gladness, 
Of  merry  voices  whispering  round, 

And  nought  of  cold  and  dreary  sadness  ; 
And  pleasant  thoughts  to  fond  hearts  press, 
And  gather  round  that  glad  word,  yes. 

Tcs  I  I  am  thine,  and  wholly  thine  ; 

The  word  in  bliss  and  truth  is  spoken  ; 
And  wilt  thou  give  a  heart  for  mine, — 

Thy  heart,  —  a  maiden's  dearest  token  ? 
Say,  wilt  thou  thine  on  me  bestow? 
I'm  sure  you  cannot  answer,  no ! 


ESTHER     W.    BARNES. 


THE     OCEAN. 

Sabbath    Musings   on   the    Seashore. 

ONE  of  thy  works,  great  Father  !  speak  to  me 
As  speaks  the  Ocean  in  its  majesty. 
Boundless,  immense,  it  rolls  from  shore  to 

shore, 

And  I,  thy  child,  here  "  tremble  and  adore," 
While  it  uplifts  its  crested  waves  on  high, 
And  rolls  its  anthem  through  the  deep-blue  sky. 
Others  to-day  in  social  worship  bend  ; 
But  here,  alone,  to  thee  my  thoughts  ascend  ; 
And  in  thy  presence,  humbled  by  thy  power, 
My  spirit  worships  at  this  hallowed  hour, 
And  a  meet  homage  offers  at  thy  shrine, 
God  of  the  restless  Seas  !  —  a  homage  all  divine. 


Ocean !  I've  loved  thee  from  my  earliest  years,  1 
With  that  deep  love  which  only  speaks  in  tears  : 
Upon  thy  shores  I've  watched  the  surging  sea, 
And  felt  my  soul  allied  to  heaven  through  thee  ; 
And,  while  thy  white  foam  brought  me  ocean-flowers, 
I've  dreamed  of  beauty  in  thy  sea-girt  bowers. 


ESTHER   W.   BARNES.  49 

Whether  thy  waves  tumultuous  bound  and  roar, 
Or  in  light  ripples  break  upon  the  shore  ; 
Whether  the  storm  upon  thy  bosom  ride, 
Or  broken  sunbeams  o'er  thy  mirror  glide  ; 
In  every  mood,  thou  ever-changing  Sea  ! 
I  feel,  and  hear  in  thee,  the  voice  of  Deity. 


Thou  sleep'st  within  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
By  whose  dear  love  the  universe  is  spanned  ; 
And  o'er  thee  bends  the  soft  and  cloudless  heaven, 
Vast  as  his  mercy  shown  to  man  forgiven  : 
Alone  with  thee,  and  "  by  the  world  forgot," 
"  The  world  forgetting,"  could  I  now  but  blot, 
From  out  life's  page,  its  cares,  transgressions,  fears, 
And  come,  all  bathed  with  penitential  tears, 
To  yield  my  hearts/or  ever  to  his  power,  — 
This  were  indeed  to  me  a  consecrated  hour ! 


But,  Ocean  !  I  shall  turn  from  thee  away ; 
Back  to  the  world  must  I  reluctant  stray, 
Mingle  in  changing  scenes,  and  feel  the  power 
Of  human  weakness  to  my  latest  hour : 
Yet  in  my  heart  an  echo  will  I  bear 
Of  thy  wild  music,  mingling  with  my  prayer  ; 
And  its  sweet  memory  through  my  life  shall  glide. 
As  the  warm  gulf-stream  through  the  ocean's  tide  ; 
While,  in  my  "  heart  of  hearts,"  the  love  of  thee 
Shall  never  cease  to  blend  with  that  of  Deity. 


50  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE  SEA-SHELL. 

OH  !  there  is  music  at  my  heart, 

If  thou  wilt  bend  thine  ear, 
And  listen  to  the  plaintive  tone 

That  is  to  me  so  dear : 
'Tis  the  echo  of  my  mother's  voice  ; 

And  I  bore  it  thence  with  me 
When  they  tore  me  from  her  heaving  breast, 

The  bosom  of  the  sea. 


Now  ye  may  bear  me  whereso'er 

Your  wandering  steps  may  roam  ; 
But  the  music  of  my  mother's  voice 

Shall  tell  me  of  my  home. 
Ye  may  bear  me  o'er  the  mountain-peak, 

•Ye  may  bear  me  where  ye  will ; 
But  ye  cannot  tear  it  from  my  heart : 

'Twill  be  my  solace  still. 


Ye  may  not  bid  it  die  away 

Upon  the  passing  breeze  ; 
For  'tis  treasured,  like  the  diver's  pearls,- 

Aye,  dearer  far  than  these,  — 
Within  the  heart  which  ye  must  break, 

Ere  the  sound  will  cease  to  be 
Of  my  mother's  voice,  the  ocean's  voice, 

The  murmur  of  the  sea. 


ESTHER   W.  BARNES.  51 


SEA-MOSSES. 

WHENCE  came  ye,  beauteous  gems  of  the  sea  ! 

With  your  golden  and  Tyrian  dyes  ? 
As  gorgeous  as  if  ye  had  borrowed  your  tints 

From  the  bright  Italian  skies. 

Perchance,  when  sunset  its  hues  hath  flung 

On  the  breast  of  the  bounding  sea, 
Ye  have  come  from  your  ocean-haunts  awhile, 

In  its  glorious  light  to  be  ; 

And  then,  entranced  with  the  varied  tints, 
Ye  have  bathed  in  the  gorgeous  dyes, 

And  borne  unto  Neptune's  halls  again 
The  hues  of  the  rainbow  skies. 

But  now,  cast  abroad  on  the  dreary  waste, 

On  the  treacherous  ocean's  foam, 
Ye  have  come,  as  many  an  exile  hath, 

To  find  in  our  land  a  home. 

Ye  have  battled  long  with  powerful  foes ; 

Ye  have  struggled  with  adverse  tides  ; 
Ye  have  fought  the  waves :  on  their  plumed  crest, 

Each,  now  as  a  conqueror,  rides. 

For  "  the  God  of  storms,"  with  his  mighty  arm, 
Led  you  on  o'er  the  trackless  foam  ; 

And  gems  of  beauty  ye  still  will  be, 
Though  torn  from  your  ocean-home. 


52         POETS  OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE  BARK  AND  THE  BLADE  OF  GRASS. 

Some  years  since,  a  small  party  visited  a  romantic  spot  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Boston.  While  there,  a  gentleman,  having  cut  a  slip  of  bark  from  a  tree,  pre 
sented  it  sportively  to  a  lady,  who  tied  a  blade  of  grass  around  it,  and  offered  it 
to  the  writer  as  a  beautiful  subject  for  a  poem.  To  that  lady  the  following  is 
dedicated,  with  the  hope  that  she  will  read  its  moral,  and  never  again  connect 
beauty  and  freshness  with  age  and  deformity. 

SHE  cut  the  bark  from  off  the  tree  ; 

And,  with  the  grass,  she  bound  it : 
This  bark  man's  emblem  is,  thought  she, 

And  woman's  love  is  round  it ! 

Now  the  bark  was  sear  and  sapless  grown, 
For  the  lapse  of  time  had  scathed  it ; 

But  the  grass  was  green  as  the  emerald-stone, 
And  bright,  for  the  dew  had  bathed  it. 

A  woman's  love  is  the  prettiest  vine, 
When,  unchilled  by  time  or  weather, 

It  clings  to  the  youthful  oak,  and  both 
On  the  spot  grow  old  together ; 

When  it  doth  its  own  sweet  fetters  fling 

On  the  thing  it  loves  most  dearly ; 
And  is  taught  by  age  and  by  ills  to  cling 

To  the  constant  stem  more  nearly : 

But,  when  the  hand  of  another  hath  bound 
The  green  to  the  bough  that's  faded, 

Oh  !  who  shall  say  it  will  there  be  found, 
When  by  clouds  and  woe  'tis  shaded  ? 


ESTHER    W.   BARNES.  53 

A  tie  more  firm  than  the  "  Gordian  knot" 

Should  then  be  bound  about  it ; 
For,  when  youth  unto  age  thus  binds  its  lot, 

Love  ne'er  will  stay  without  it. 


OH!   VISIT  ME   IN  DREAMS. 

OFT  in  my  day-dreams,  Brother !  do  I  see 

Thy  face  so  loved  :  it  gently  smiles  on  me 

In  the  glad  sunbeam  of  the  glowing  day, 

And  in  the  pensive  moonbeam's  milder  ray. 

Thy  voice,  it  greets  me  in  each  mirthful  tone 

That  Nature's  wild  harp  breathes  ;  and,  in  the  moan 

Of  Autumn's  requiem  o'er  her  dying  flowers, 

I  hear  thy  sigh  o'er  by-gone,  happy  hours. 

I  see  thee,  and  I  feel  that  thou  art  near, 

When  music's  sweetness  falls  upon  mine  ear ; 

And,  in  the  rippling  of  the  summer's  rill, 

Thy  glad  laugh  weaves  its  gladness  round  me  still ! 

Would  that  my  visions  of  the  night  were  blest, 

And  thy  dear  spirit  hovered  o'er  my  rest ! 

Would  that  in  dreams,  when  darkness  has  unfurled 

Her  star-lit  banner  o'er  a  slumbering  world, 

Thou,  with  the  shadowy  train  of  loved  ones  dear, 

Would  hold  communion  with  my  spirit  here  ! 

May  I  not  call  you  from  your  far-off  home  ? 

And  will  ye  not,  beloved  ones  !  hither  come  ? 

Oh  !  hover  now  about  my  couch  of  rest ; 

Blend  with  my  dreams  the  thought  that  ye  are  blest ; 

Tell  me  of  those  pure  joys  that  hidden  lie 

'Neath  the  dark  curtain  of  futurity  ; 


54  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Speak  of  our  blest  re-union  in  that  land 

Where  love  shall  bind  us  once  more,  hand  in  hand  ; 

Oh,  hover  o'er  me  !  spread  your  angel  wings  ; 

Bear  me  in  dreams,  at  least,  from  earth's  frail  things ; 

Whisper  of  heaven  ;  enraptured  sing  its  bliss, 

And  on  my  brow  impress  the  angels'  kiss. 

Oh,  if  the  grave  must  shut  ye  from  my  sight, 

Return,  return  in  visions  of  the  night ! 

My  Brother !  on  my  hand  thy  ring  I  see, 
The  talisman  of  hope  and  memory : 
Hope  for  the  hour  when  falls  the  captive's  chain, 
And  thou'lt  enfold  me  to  thy  heart  again  ; 
And  memory  of  the  love  that  bound  us  here,  — 
A  love  that  made  e'en  this  bright  world  more  dear. 
'Twas  on  the  day  that  gave  to  me  my  birth 
(And  thou  wert  passing  then  away  from  earth). 
Thou  bad'st  them  bear  to  me  the  precious  token 
Of  thy  dear  love,  whose  \xx\&'is  yet  unbroken  ! 
The  wreath  afledtion  twines,  death  cannot  sever : 
It  bloometh  still  in  heaven,  fadeless,  for  ever ! 
No  canker  blights  its  amaranthine  leaves, 
No  cruel  reaper  binds  it  'mid  his  sheaves. 

Yes,  thou  wert  passing  to  thy  home  away : 

But  I  a  little  longer  here  shall  stay ; 

A  little  longer  linger  on  the  shore  ; 

Then  clasp  thee,  Brother !  in  my  arms  once  more. 

There  all  shall  meet,  —  beholding  face  to  face, 

"  No  wanderer  lost," —  meet  in  one  long  embrace  ; 

Heart  unto  heart,  and  hand  to  hand,  we'll  be 

United  closely  through  eternity  ! 

The  broken  links  a  bond  shall  form  in  heaven  ; 

To  broken  hearts  shall  healing  then  be  given  ; 


ESTHER   W.  BARNES.  55 

Affection  twine  us  with  its  deathless  chain, 
And  bid  us  breathe  no  parting  sigh  again. 
Oh  !  then,  most  welcome  shall  be  that  blest  hour 
When  Death  unites,  and  Love  asserts  its  power  ! 


THE    MOONBEAM. 

I  HAVE  trod  with  silver  footprint 

On  the  white  wave's  foaming  crest ; 
And  I've  seen  my  mirrored  beauty 

In  the  glassy  lake  at  res't. 
I  have  played  amid  the  foliage 

Of  the  blossom-laden  tree  ; 
And  I've  rested  on  the  white  wings 

Of  the  Argosy  at  sea. 

I  have  slept  upon  the  summit 

Of  the  snow-crowned  Alpine  heights, 
Where  the  north  wind's  icy  breathing 

Every  little  floweret  blights. 
I  have  trod  where  chilling  glaciers 

Lift  their  pointed  spires  to  heaven, 
And,  within  Chamouni's  valley, 

Bathed  in  perfumed  dews  at  even. 

On  Niagara's  mist-wreaths  resting, 

I  have  thrown  my  lunar  light ; 
Spanning  them,  with  bow  of  promise, 

Like  a  halo  pure  and  bright. 
I  have  played  within  the  fountain, 

Sparkling  as  in  fairy  dream  ; 
And  I've  smiled  upon  the  spray-drops 

As  they  sought  to  quench  my  beam. 


56  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  have  nestled  oft  at  midnight 

In  the  music-breathing  pine, 
Lulled  to  slumber  calm  and  holy 

By  its  melody  divine  ; 
And  I've  crept  within  the  petals 

Of  the  lily  pure  and  white  ; 
And,  from  out  the  crystal  chalice, 

Sipped  the  dew-drop  sparkling  bright. 

But,  alas  !  some  hours  of  sadness 

E'en  the  moonbeam's  lot  must  share  ; 
And  on  scenes  of  human  anguish, 

Heart-bereavement,  and  despair, 
Must  I  smile  with  seeming  lightness,  — 

Coldly  smile  as  oft  they  deem  ; 
While  my  heart  with  grief  is  breaking,  - 

Grief  they  neither  know  nor  dream. 

I  must  gaze  upon  the  death-bed 

Of  the  young,  the  good,  the  fair ; 
I  must  see  life's  glowing  taper 

Quenched  in  darkness  and  despair. 
When  the  silver  cord  is  loosened, 

Broken  is  the  golden  bowl, 
I  must  calmly  gaze,  nor  tremble, 

E'en  though  anguish  rend  my  soul. 

But  let  not  the  moonbeam  murmur, 

Whispereth  an  inward  voice  : 
It  can  breathe  in  soothing  accents, 

Bid  the  mourner's  heart  rejoice  ; 
It  can  whisper  peace,  which  calmeth 

All  the  stricken  soul's  unrest ; 
It  can  whisper  of  that  heaven 

Where  the  sufFering  shall  be  blest. 


ESTHER   W.  BARNES.  57 

It  can  light  the  storm-tossed  wanderer 

On  the  trackless,  heaving  main  ; 
And,  to  God,  the  reckless  sceptic 

It  can  bring  with  hope  again. 
Who,  beneath  the  moonbeam  smiling, 

And  its  glory  poured  o'er  earth, 
Can  forget  His  love  whose  mandate 

Gave  unto  the  light  its  birth  ? 

Who  can  doubt  He  ever  liveth, 

Who  from  chaos  formed  this  world  ; 
Set  the  stars  ;  the  moon's  soft  radiance 

Like  a  silver  flag  unfurled? 
Cease  then,  gentle  beam  !  to  murmur  : 

Sweet  thy  task  to  tell  of  Him 
From  whose  throne  the  glory  beaming 

Maketh  sun  and  stars  grow  dim. 


MRS.    SARAH  ROBERTS   BOTLE. 


THE   VOICE    OF  THE   GRASS. 


ERE  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 
By  the  dusty  roadside, 
On  the  sunny  hillside, 
Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 
In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere  : 
All  round  the  open  door, 
Where  sit  the  aged  poor, 
Here,  where  the  children  play 
In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 

I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart, 

Toiling  his  busy  part ; 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


MBS.   SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE.  59 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

You  cannot  see  me  coming, 

Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming  ; 

For  in  the  starry  night, 

And  the  glad  morning  light, 
I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 


Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

More  welcome  than  the  flowers 

In  summer's  pleasant  hours  : 

The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 

And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 
When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 
In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come, 
And  deck  your  silent  home  ; 

Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 


Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

My  humble  song  of  praise, 

Most  gratefully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land  ; 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 


60  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   DESERTED   NURSERY. 

THE  little  crib  is  empty, 

Where  oft  I've  seen  thee  lie 
So  beautiful  in  thy  deep  sleep, 

Emblem  of  purity. 
And,  oh !  how  silent  is  the  place 

Where  late  I  heard  thy  voice 
In  gleeful  shout  or  merry  laugh, 

Making  my  heart  rejoice  ! 


In  vain  I  look  around  me, 

Thy  cherub  form  to  see  : 
Art  thou  not  hiding,  baby  ? 

Is  this  reality? 
God's  sunshine  streameth  in  the  room, 

But  midnight's  in  my  heart : 
I  never  dreamed  such  agony, 

Baby,  that  we  could  part. 


Thy  playthings  lie  around  me, 

The  silent  rattle  here, 
Gay  toys  and  pi<5ture-books  are  there  : 

Ah  !  sure  thou  must  be  near. 
Thy  tiny  pair  of  half-worn  shoes, 

Thy  life-like  frock  of  red, 
Thy  whistle,  hat,  and  favorite  whip,  — 

Sweet  baby,  art  thou  dead  ? 


MRS.   SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE.  61 

My  trembling  hand  encloses 

Thy  bright  and  clustering  curls  ; 
Millions  of  gold  can't  buy  them, 

Nor  India's  gems  or  pearls  : 
'Tis  all  that's  left  to  mortal  sight, 

Of  thee,  sweet  baby,  now. 
O  Holy  Father  !  teach  my  soul 

Submissively  to  bow. 


Last  night,  in  troubled  slumber, 

I  thought  I  heard  thy  cry, 
And  started  quick  to  soothe  thee,  dear ; 

But,  oh,  what  agony  ! 
The  dimpled  hand  was  not  in  mine, 

Nor  sweet  lips  pressed  my  cheek  ; 
The  lisping  voice,  it  called  me  not : 

What  could  I  do  but  weep  ? 


Father  !  forgive  my  anguish, 

Thy  ways  are  ever  just ; 
Speak  comfort  to  our  broken  hearts, 

For  thou  art  all  our  trust : 
With  thee  the  spirit  liveth, 

So  cherished  and  so  dear, 
Sent  to  us  for  a  little  while, 

Our  earthly  home  to  cheer. 
Now  the  Good  Shepherd  leadeth  him 

Through  pastures  green  and  fair  : 
Onward  and  upward  be  our  aim, 

To  meet  our  loved  one  there. 


62  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   CITY  ROSE  TO  THE  WILD   ROSE. 

THE  wild  bee  brought  your  message 

Just  at  the  peep  of  day, 
Tapping,  buzzing  at  my  window  ; 

Then  gayly  flew  away. 
I  thank  you,  fair  young  sister  ; 

But  t'would  break  my  heart  to  roam, 
So  many,  many  love  me 

In  my  dusty  city  home. 


You  tell  of  fresh  green  meadows  ; 

Of  upland,  hill,  and  glade  ; 
Of  the  many  merry  sisters, 

And  the  still  and  pleasant  shade  ; 
Of  fragrant  flowers  around  you  ; 

Of  a  laughing,  noisy  brook 
Tripping  gayly  at  your  feet  all  day, 

Reflecting  every  look. 


You  say  you'll  have  sweet  music 

With  the  early  morning  light ; 
That  the  nightingale  will  cheer  us 

Through  all  the  summer  night ; 
That  the  humming-bird  and  bee 

Shall  do  my  bidding  every  day, 
Bring  all  the  city  news  to  me 

From  friends  so  far  away. 


MBS.  SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE.  63 

You  say  I  must  be  lonely  ; 

That  you  tremble  for  my  health  ; 
That  the  fresh  and  fragrant  breezes 

Are  worth  the  city's  wealth. 
But,  could  you  see  the  fair  young  girl 

That  ministers  to  me, 
You'd  say  how  happy  was  my  lot, 

Cherished  so  tenderly. 


There  are  but  few  to  love  her, 

And  why  ?  for  she  is  poor ; 
And  toiling,  toiling  all  the  day, 

She  loveth  me  the  more. 
She  smiles  to  see  my  beauty  ; 

She'll  weep  when  I  am  dead  : 
Wild  sister,  who  will  weep  for  you, 

When  winter  bows  your  head  ? 


She  opes  the  window  early 

To  give  me  air  and  sun, 
Then  sitteth  sadly  at  my  side 

To  toil  till  day  is  done  ; 
And  when  she  rests  her  weary  hands, 

And  drops  a  tear  on  me, 
My  sweetest  fragrance  I  impart, 

And  cheer  her  gratefully. 


The  children  poor  and  wretched 
Smile  as  they  gaze  on  me, 

And  often  stop  in  passing, 
And  praise  me  timidly. 


64  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

So  I  cannot  leave  my  noisy  home, 
Though  brighter  are  your  hours  ; 

I  have  the  love  of  many  hearts,  — 
You've  but  the  love  of  flowers. 


My  gentle  mistress  seemeth  ill : 

I  sometimes  think  she'll  die. 
Then  send  the  robin  and  the  thrush 

To  bear  me  where  she'll  lie  ; 
And  come  to  me,  sweet  sister, 

Where  sombre  willows  wave, 
And  side  by  side  we'll  weep  and  watch 

Over  her  early  grave. 


THE   BLIND   MAN   TO    HIS   WIFE. 

I  NEVER  saw  you,  Bertha, 

Though  you're  my  own  sweet  wife  ; 
And  fondly,  dearly  do  I  love 

The  sunshine  of  my  life. 
For  midnight  brooded  o'er  my  soul, 

And  midnight  was  my  day, 
Till  your  kind  voice  and  gleesome  laugh 

Made  e'en  the  blind  man  gay. 


Young  maidens  jeered  you,  Bertha, 
When  you  became  my  bride  ; 

And  wealth  and  titles  bowed  to  you, 
To  lure  you  from  my  side. 


MRS.  SARAH  EGBERTS  BOYLE.  65 

My  form,  they  said,  was  noble, 

That  godlike  was  my  mind, 
My  brow  told  thought  and  intellect : 

Alas  !  but  I  was  blind. 


My  eyes  indeed  are  clouded  ; 

But  visions  bright  and  fair 
Of  Nature's  thousand  beauties 

My  mind  sees  everywhere. 
Dearest  of  all,  sweet  Bertha  mine, 

Is  thy  loved  image  bright : 
I  would  not  lose  its  impress  there, 

To  see  God's  blessed  light. 


They  ofttimes  speak  of  beauty, 

And  then  I  think  of  thee  ; 
Gay-tinted  flowers  and  sunset  clouds, 

And  still  I  think  of  thee  ; 
The  starry  heavens,  the  sparkling  brook, 

Faces  most  fair  to  see  : 
But  my  fond  heart  earth's  loveliness 

Embodies  all  in  thee. 


Thy  voice  to  me,  dear  Bertha, 

Is  sweeter  than  the  birds  ; 
Nor  harp  nor  lute  so  sweet  to  me 

As  thine  own  gentle  words  : 
At  thy  light  footfall  on  the  stair, 

My  heart  beats  high  with  joy  ; 
And,  though  ten  wedded  years  have  passed, 

I  love  as  when  a  boy. 
5 


66  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

God  bless  thee,  dearest  Bertha, 

For  all  thou'st  been  to  me, 
For  light  and  joy  and  sunshine  poured 

On  my  Sitd  destiny  ! 
Oh  !  when  the  scales  fall  from  these  eyes, 

In  the  land  where  all  can  see, 
Next  to  my  God,  sweet  wife  of  mine, 

My  gaze  shall  fall  on  thee. 


"I   HEARD   A  VOICE   SAYING   UNTO   ME,    COME 
UP  HITHER."  — REVELATION. 

THERE  ever  are  around  me 

Sweet  voices  in  the  air  : 
When  friends  are  near,  or  when  alone, 

They're  ever  with  me  there. 
In  the  bright  and  gladsome  morning, 

Or  the  silent  time  of  eve, 
They  fill  the  air  with  melody, 

And  this  little  song  they  weave, 
"  Come  up  hither." 

There  ever  are  around  me 

Bright  forms  I  love  to  see, 
Invisible  to  human  eye, 

But  beautiful  to  me. 
With  mind's  keen  eye  I  see  them  ; 

I  feel  their  fanning  wing  ; 
With  mind's  keen  ear  I  ever  hear 

This  solemn  song  they  sing, 
"  Come  up  hither." 


MRS.   SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE.  67 

As  night's  dark  pinion  o'er  me, 

They  hover  round  my  bed  : 
In  sorrow,  pain,  or  loneliness, 

They  hold  my  weary  head. 
'Tis  sweet  to  lean  on  angels, 

To  feel  they're  ever  near  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  their  plaintive  song 

For  ever  in  mine  ear, 
"  Come  up  hither." 

Why  flit  ye  so  around  me, 

Ye  bright  angelic  ones? 
Why  ever  sound  ye  in  mine  ear 

Those  sweet  and  solemn  tones? 
"  We  have  a  message,  mortal, 

Our  Father  bade  us  bring  ; 
And  we  do  his  gracious  bidding, 

When  our  solemn  song  we  sing, 
'  Come  up  hither.' 

"•  Oh  !  ever  upward  be  thine  aim, 

And  upward  be  thine  eye  ; 
The  path  of  duty  meekly  tread, 

With  heart  and  hope  on  high. 
Ye've  no  abiding  city  here, 

Ye're  creatures  of  a  day  ; 
Then  listen,  listen,  mortal, 

And  hear  our  solemn  lay, 
'  Come  up  hither.'  " 

Be  ever,  ever  near  me, 

Bright  forms  I  love  to  see  ! 
Oh  !  let  me  ever,  ever  hear 

Those  tones  of  melody. 


68  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

When  on  my  death-bed  lying, 

And  eternity  is  near, 
Oh  !  hover,  hover  o'er  me, 

And  those  sweet  tones  let  me  hear, 
"  Come  up  hither." 


OUR    REST. 

"  The  sufferings  of  this  present  time  are  not  worthy  to  be  com 
pared  to  the  glory  that  shall  be  revealed  in  its." 

MY  feet  are  worn  and  weary  with  the  march 
Over  rough  roads  and  up  the  steep  hill-side  : 

O  city  of  our  God  !  I  fain  would  see 

Thy  pastures  green,  where  peaceful  waters  glide. 

My  hands  are  weary,  laboring,  toiling  on, 

Day  after  day,  for  perishable  meat : 
O  city  of  our  God  !  I  fain  would  rest ; 

I  sigh  to  gain  thy  glorious  mercy-seat. 

My  garments,  travel-worn,  and  stained  with  dust, 
Oft  rent  by  briars  and  thorns  that  crowd  my  way, 

Would  fain  be  made,  O  Lord  my  righteousness  ! 
Spotless  and  white  in  heaven's  unclouded  ray. 

My  eyes  are  weary  looking  at  the  sin, 

Impiety,  and  scorn  upon  the  earth : 
O  city  of  our  God  !  within  thy  w7alls, 

All,  all  are  clothed  upon  with  the  new  birth. 


MRS.   SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE.  69 

My  heart  is  weary  of  its  own  deep  sin,  — 
Sinning,  repenting,  sinning  still  alway  : 

When  shall  my  soul  thy  glorious  presence  feel, 
And  find  its  guilt,  dear  Saviour,  washed  away? 

Patience,  poor  soul !  the  Saviour's  feet  were  worn, 
The  Saviour's  heart  and  hands  were  weary  too, 

His  garments  stained  and  travel-worn  and  old, 
His  sacred  eyes  blinded  with  tears  for  you. 

Love  thou  the  path  of  sorrow  that  he  trod  ; 

Toil  on,  and  wait  in  patience  for  thy  rest : 
O  city  of  our  God  !  we  soon  shall  see 

Thy  glorious  walls,  home  of  the  loved  and  blest. 


CHARLES    W.   BREWSTER. 


THE  VANE  OF  THE  OLD  NORTH  CHURCH. 


The  yane  of  the  old  North  Church  bore  the  date  of  1732.  when  it  was  put  up. 
It  was  not  gilded  until  1796.  When  destined  to  come  down,  in  1854.  the  vane  is 
thus  personified,  to  enable  it  to  tell  its  story. 


CAN'T  come  down  !  I  can't  come  down  ! 

Call  loudly  as  you  may  ! 
A  century  and  a  third  I've  stood  ; 

Another  I  must  stay. 


Long  have  I  watched  the  changing  scene, 

As  every  point  I've  faced  ; 
And  witnessed  generations  rise, 

Which  others  have  displaced. 

The  points  of  steel  which  o'er  me  rise 
Have  branched  since  I  perched  here  ; 

For  Franklin  then  was  but  a  boy, 
Who  gave  the  lightning  gear. 

The  day  when  Cook  exploring  sailed, 

I  faced  the  eastern  breeze  ; 
Stationed  at  home,  I  turned  my  head 

To  the  far  western  seas. 


CHARLES   W.  BBEWSTEB.  71 

I've  stood  while  isles  of  savage  men 

Grew  harmless  as  the  dove  ; 
And  spears  and  battle-axes  turned 

To  purposes  of  love. 

I  looked  on  when  those  noble  elms 

Upon  my  east  first  sprung, 
And  heard,  where  now  a  factory  stands, 

The  ship-yard's  busy  hum. 

When  tumult  filled  the  anxious  throng, 

I  found  on  every  side 
The  constant  breezes  fanned  a  flame, 

And  Freedom's  fire  supplied. 

William  and  Mary 's  fort  I've  oft, 

Through  storms,  kept  full  in  view  ; 
Queen's  Chapel  in  the  snow-squalls  faced  ; 
And,  west,  looked  King  Street  through. 

Fort  Constitution  now  takes  place, 

To  meet  my  south-east  glance  ; 
The  shrill  north-easters  from  St.  John's 

Up  Congress  Street  advance. 

In  peace  I  once  felt  truly  vain  ; 

For  'neath  my  shadow  stood 
The  man  whom  all  the  people  loved, — 

George  Washington  the  good  ! 

But  why  recount  the  sights  I've  seen  ? 

You'll  say  I'm  getting  old  : 
I'll  quit  my  tale,  long  though  it  be, 

And  leave  it  half  untold. 


72  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

The  fame  of  Rogers,  Fitch,  and  Stiles, 
And  Buckminster,  —  all  true  ; 

And  later  men,  whom  all  do  know, 
Come  passing  in  review. 

Their  sainted  souls,  and  hearers  too  — 
Your  fathers  —  where  are  they  ? 

The  temple  of  their  love  still  stands,  — 
Its  memories  cheer  your  way. 

Till  that  old  oak,  among  whose  boughs 
The  sun  my  first  shade  cast, 

Lays  low  in  dust  his  vigorous  form, 
A  respite  I  may  ask. 

This  little  boon  I  now  must  crave, — 
(Time's  peltings  I  will  scorn,)  — 

Till,  co-ward  like,  I  turn  my  head, 
Let  me  still  face  the  storm. 


THE    INFANT    TWINS. 
Parental  Dedication. 

YES,  lovely  ones,  ye  are  the  gift  of  Heaven  ! 
From  God's  own  hand  ye  were  directly  given  ! 
And,  though  but  mortal  charms  do  meet  the  eye, 
Within  your  bosoms  immortality 
A  spark  has  kindled,  which  may  burn  more  bright 
Than  brilliant  noonday  sun,  —  when  sable  night 
Her  reign  resigns  to  one  unceasing  day, 
And  seraph  vestments  take  the  place  of  clay. 


CHARLES   W.  BREWS TER.  73 

Sublime  the  thought,  —  it  will  not,  cannot  die, 
Through  years  infinite  an  infinity  ! 
May  hope  support  through  this  short  vale  of  tears : 
There's  Balm  in  Gilead  for  all  anxious  fears. 


That  trials  here  surround  we  do  not  sorrow : 
Without  a  cross  no  crown  can  e'er  be  borne  : 

But  joy  that  from  your  Saviour  ye  can  borrow 
That  perfect  armor  which  himself  has  worn. 


O  GOD  !  this  trust  of  thine  to  thee  we  give  ; 

To  be  for  ever  thine,  teach  them  to  live  ! 

Oh  !  teach  them  early,  by  thy  Spirit's  aid, 

That  life,  at  best,  is  but  a  fleeting  shade  ; 

Teach  them  to  venerate  thy  holy  name,  — 

To  know  their  Saviour,  and  his  love  proclaim  ; 

Spirits  of  love  within  their  bosoms  bind, 

And  to  each  a6l  and  thought  be  close  entwined. 

From  thine  own  hand  oh  teach  them  they  are  fed ! 

Thy  hand  their  pillow,  and  thine  arm  their  bed. 

To  thee  for  strength,  whene'er  temptations  rise, 

Raised  be  their  voice,  and  thou  wilt  hear  their  cries. 


Then,  gracious  God  !  before  thy  holy  shrine, 
When  the  vast  portals  of  the  skies  are  riven, 

May  we  with  joy  our  offspring  there  resign  : 

Here  are  we,  Lord,  and  those  whom  thou  hast  given. 


74  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


HISTORY   OF   NEWS. —  BIRTH    OF  THE    PRESS. 

Lo  !  when  the  Eternal  planned  his  wise  design, 
Created  earth,  and,  like  his  smile  benign, 
With  splendor,  beauty,  mildness,  decked  the  skies,  - 
Waked  from  eternal  sleep,  with  wondering  eyes 
Man  viewed  the  scene,  and  gave  to  News  its  rise. 

New  of  himself,  to  Adam  all  was  new,  — 
The  concave  canopy,  the  landscape's  view  ; 
The  murmuring  rivulet,  and  the  zephyr's  sound  ; 
The  songster's  carol,  and  the  deer's  light  bound  ; 
The  fruit  luxuriant,  where  no  brier  sprung ; 
No  weary  toil,  from  morn  to  setting  sun  ; 
But  every  gale  sweet  odors  wafted  on, 
His  joys  to  freshen.     Though  he  yet  was  lone, 
This  news  was  good  indeed  :   such  riches  given, 
Enough  almost  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 
But  better  news  by  far  did  Adam  hear, 
When  woman's  voice  first  hailed  his  raptured  ear,  — 
News  which,  in  later  days,  full  well  we  know 
Lightens  life's  load  of  many  a  heavy  woe. 

But  scarce  our  common  parent  rose  from  earth, 
Inhaled  the  breath  of  life,  and  Eve  had  birth, 
When  twined  the  monster  round  the  fatal  tree,  — 
Dispelled  their  joy,  content,  and  purity : 
Then  agonizing  Nature  brought  to  view 
Ills  which  in  Eden's  bowers  they  never  knew  ; 
Then,  at  that  hour  accursed,  that  hour  forlorn, 
Bad  news  —  the  demon's  first  bequest — was  born. 


CHARLES   W.   BEEWSTER.  75 

But,  though  ignobly  born,  to  seek  we're  prone 
The  bad  as  well  as  good,  and  make  our  own 
The  knowledge  of  the  griefs  and  woes  of  all 
On  whom  the  withering  frowns  of  fortune  fall. 

Bad  news  abundant  since  has  filled  our  world  : 
War's  bloody  garments  oft  have  been  unfurled,  — 
The  kindly  parent  oft  been  called  to  yield 
His  earthly  hope  to  dye  the  ensanguined  field  ; 
Disease  oft  torn  our  dearest  hopes  away, 
Tyrannic  princes  borne  despotic  sway  ;  • 
And  every  day  the  reckless  bearer's  been 
Of  evil  tidings  to  the  sons  of  men. 

But  change  this  picture  of  a  darkened  hue  ; 
Let  scenes  more  bright  now  open  to  the  view  : 
Though  things  may  change  with  ever-varying  flow, 
They  do  not  bring  to  all  unmingled  woe. 
Do  millions  mourn  a  kingdom's  fallen  state? 
A  Caesar  hails  the  news  with  joy  elate. 
Does  drought  or  frost  destroy  the  planter's  hope, 
And  climes  more  genial  yield  a  fruitful  crop? 
Enhanced  by  contrast,  these  delight  the  more 
In  the  good  tidings  of  their  bounteous  store. 
Does  "  the  insatiate  archer"  claim  a  prize? 
The  weeping  friend,  the  heir  with  tearless  eyes, 
Show  joy  is  oft  the  associate  of  grief, 
And  pain  to  some,  to  others  is  relief. 

Full  many  ages,  centuries,  rolled  along, 
Ere  news  a  record  found,  the  press  a  tongue. 
From  sire  to  son,  tradition's  tale  was  told, 
Or  musty  parchment  spoke  the  days  of  old  ; 


76  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

No  minor  incidents  of  passing  time 

Ere  filled  a  page  or  occupied  a  rhyme  ; 

No  wars  of  politics  on  paper  fought, 

And  few  the  favored  ones  by  science  taught. 

Minerva  saw  the  dreary  waste  below, 

And  urged  the  gods  their  bounties  to  bestow, 

The  mind  of  man  to  chaste  refinement  bring, 

And  ope  to  all  the  pure  Pierian  spring. 

The  gods  convened  ;  but  still  Minerva  frowned  : 

Not  one  of  all  their  gifts  her  wishes  crowned, 

Till  Vulcan  thus,  —  and  simple  the  address,  — 

"  My  richest  gifts  behold,  —  the  TYPES  and  PRESS  !" 

The  goddess  smiled,  and  swiftly  Mercury  flies 

To  bear  to  earth  the  god's  most  favored  prize. 

Auspicious  hour  !  hail,  morn  of  brighter  day  ! 

Ages  of  darkness,  close  !  to  light  give  way  ! 

The  morn  is  past,  the  splendid  sun  is  high ! 
The  mist  dispelled,  and  all  beneath  the  sky 
Feel  its  kind  influence  ;  and  its  cheering  ray 
Enlivens  all,  and  shines  in  brilliant  day. 
The  sacred  writ,  which  once  was  scarcely  known 
To  teachers,  now  (almost  a  dream  !)  is  thrown 
Into  a  book,  —  all,  in  one  little  hour, 
Alike  in  king's  and  lowest  menial's  power ; 
And  bounteous  given  —  scarce  is  felt  the  task  — 
In  every  work  which  use  or  fancy  ask. 
Thousands  of  years  a  dreary  night  had  been, 
Ere  Vulcan's  art  surpassed  the  tedious  pen,  — 
Ei-e  down  from  heaven  this  precious  gift  was  brought, 
To  lend  the  speed  of  lightning  unto  thought. 


CHARLES   W.   BREWSTER.  77 


THE   LOCOMOTIVE   AND   THE   SNOW-FLAKES. 

ARMED  with  a  giant's  mighty  strength,  — 

My  feeblest  nerves  all  brass,  — 
My  sinews,  in  their  devious  length, 

Strong  iron  muscles  grasp. 

I  breathe,  —  and  lightnings  fiercely  glare  ; 

I  step,  —  and  thunders  roll : 
What  length  of  train  can  ever  dare 

Impede  me  from  my  goal? 

Quick  as  the  speedy  thought  I  fly  : 

What  earthly  power  can  dare 
In  rapid  flight  with  me  to  vie, 

Or  tithe  of  burden  bear? 

I  glory  in  unequalled  might,  — 

Of  strength,  where  rests  such  power? 

I  dare  earth's  legions  to  a  fight ! 
I'd  scorn  all.  in  that  hour ! 

His  wide-spi'ead  nostrils,  highly  steamed, 

A  vapor  slight  did  bear  ; 
In  modest  cloud  a  moment  gleamed, 

Then  disappeared  in  air. 

Unheeded  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  pearl-drops  floated  high, 
Till  in  new  robes  of  downy  white 

They  marshalled  in-  the  sky. 


78  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

"  Didst  hear  our  generator's  boast?" 
A  snow-flake,  whispering,  said  ; 

"  Come,  let  us,  though  a  puny  host, 
Attack  the  mighty  steed  !  " 

"  I'm  nothing  mere,"  a  flake  replied  ; 

"  And  can  I  dare  contemn 
That  mighty  power  which  has  defied 

The  strength,  the  skill,  of  men?" 

"We  need  your  influence,  one  and  all ! " 

Was  now  the  stirring  cry  ; 
"  Our  union  is  the  despot's  fall !  " 

The  puny  flakes  reply. 

The  flakes  then  dropped  in  order  down, 
So  small  and  feathery  light, 

They  raised  not  e'en  suspicion's  frown, 
O'er  carpet  spread  so  white. 

The  steam  is  raised,  —  the  courser  raves, 
For  flakes  his  feet  have  bound  ! 

He  strains  each  nerve  ;  in  vain  he  braves 
A  match  at  last  is  found ! 

In  voice  of  wisdom  snow-flakes  speak  : 
"  May  man  this  semblance  see,  — 

United  effort  nerves  the  weak, 
And  gives  the  victory." 


M  A  R  T     C  U  T  T  S. 


S  E  A-S  HELLS. 

RIGHT,  radiant  shells  from  foreign  climes, 

How  beautiful  ye  are, 
Decked  with  the  roseate  tints  ye  bring 
From  native  shore  afar ! 


I  love  your  colors  and  your  shine, 
Stray  ones  from  other  shores  ; 

But  yet  a  deeper  grace  ye  have, 
A  dearer  charm  is  yours. 

Ye  bring  the  mighty  ocean's  roar 

Within  your  little  space, 
As  if  no  change,  no  new  abode, 

Its  memory  could  efface. 

Ah  !  others  praise  your  glowing  hues  : 

More  wonderful  to  me 
Than  even  the  most  gorgeous  tints, 

These  whispers  of  the  sea. 

They  seem  to  speak  of  hidden  power : 

And  yet  it  is  not  so  : 
Strange,  strange  it  is  that  ye  should  bring 

The  raging  water's  flow  ! 


80  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH, 

Ah  !  it  is  strange  that  what  we  love 

In  joyous,  early  day, 
Should  never,  never  from  the  soul, 

The  spirit,  fade  away ! 

Then  sing,  sweet  shells,  sing  on,  and  tell 

Of  the  old  ocean's  roar  : 
It  was  your  first  love,  and  aught  else 

Shall  vanish  that  before. 

When  first  created,  weak  and  frail, 
The  mighty  sound  ye  heard  ; 

And  now  no  music  of  the  land, 
No  zephyr,  song  of  bird, 

Will  e'er  efface  it.     Be  it  so. 

Sing  on  :  ye  bring  to  me 
The  dashing  bound,  the  foaming  spray, 

The  glory  of  the  sea  ! 

I  seem  to  view  the  curling  wave, 

I  hear  the  whizzing  gush, 
As  bright  and  clear,  as  swift  and  bold, 

The  sparkling  waters  rush. 

Then  ever  breathe  the  song  to  me 

That  tells  of  native  shore  : 
I  love  your  beauty  ;  for  this  charm, 

Bright  ones,  I  love  you  more. 


MARY  CUTTS.  81 


SONG. 

I  KNEW  a  hearth  where  bright  eyes  met : 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad? 
For  round  that  hearth  there  only  thronged 

The  sweet,  the  pure,  the  glad. 

Alas !  how  much  is  in  the  word, 

That  simple  word,  I  knew  ! 
Yet  can  we  ever  cease  to  love 

The  beautiful  and  true  ? 

Ah  !  'mid  the  varied  scenes  of  life, 

Its  hour  of  woe  or  mirth, 
How  oft  my  heart  will  wander  back 

To  that  beloved  hearth  ; 

And  trust,  though  years  may  desolate 

That  once  so  cherished  spot, 
There  may  remain  one  gentle  heart 

That  will  forget  me  not ! 

I  knew  a  hearth  where  bright  eyes  met : 

Why  is  my  spirit  sad  ? 
For  round  that  hearth  there  only  thronged 

The  sweet,  the  pure,  the  glad. 


82  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE     FATED. 

I  SAW  a  picture  once,  or  had  a  dream,  — 

I  know  not  which  ;  but  oft  there  comes  a  gleam 

Across  my  mind  of  what  it  did  portray. 

It  was  a  stormy,  wild,  tempestuous  day  ; 

And  a  poor  sailor  on  a  rock  is  cast, 

With  nought  to  shield  him  from  the  angry  blast. 

Alone  he  stands ;  and,  far  as  eye  can  reach, 

There  is  no  sign  of  ship  or  isle  or  beach  : 

Nought  seen  but  ocean,  —  ocean  all  around, 

With  its  tumultuous  heaves,  —  no  other  sound  : 

No  form  but  his,  no  human  arm  to  save, 

As  wave  on  wave  came  tumbling  over  wave. 

The  ocean  roared  and  beat  and  splashed  and  fumed  ; 

Still  on  his  craggy  rock  stood  firm  the  doomed. 

I  heard  it  rave  —  oh  !  terrible  the  sound  ! 

Darker  and  darker  grew  the  clouds  around  ; 

Not  yet  the  fated  from  his  rock  is  riven  : 

Yet  is  he  there,  —  there,  with  his  eye  on  heaven. 


SAMUEL   M.   DEMERITT. 


FORGIVENESS. 


HE  virtues  met  in  summer-time 

Beneath  an  aged  tree, 
To  see  each  other,  and  to  hold 
A  converse  kind  and  free. 


They  also  had  a  prize  to  give 
To  one  among  them  there  ; 

And  who  the  worthy  one  should  be 
They  all  were  to  declare. 

The  fair  ones,  meekly  joining  hands, 
Their  mutual  honor  plight, 

And  seek,  with  truly  honest  zeal, 
To  recompense  the  right. 

When  all  had  thought,  it  was  agreed 
(A  judgment  ne'er  more  wise  !) 

By  all  as  one,  with  heart  and  voice, 
"  FORGIVENESS  takes  the  prize." 


84  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


TO 


WERE  I  to  twine  a  beauteous  wreath 
Thy  tranquil  brow  to  bind, 

I  would  not  take  from  Flora's  hand 
Her  flowers  of  choicest  kind. 

I  would  not  seek  for  pearls,  or  gold, 
Or  diamonds  bright  and  rare  : 

I'd  cull  from  virtue's  garden  rich, 
Adornments  far  more  fair. 

I'd  make  a  crown  of  modesty, 
And  deck  it  o'er  with  truth  ; 

With  cheerfulness  I'd  have  it  shine, 
Like  buoyant  hopes  of  youth. 

Sincerity,  and  friendship  true, 
And  kindness,  should  be  there  ; 

And,  more  than  all,  thy  brow  the  gem 
Of  piety  should  wear. 


GOD  AND   OUR  NEIGHBOR. 

ALTHOUGH  our  duties  are  in  number  great, 
Of  vast  proportions  and  of  wondrous  weight ; 
Yet  all,  when  rightly  seen  and  understood, 
Tend  toward  ourselves,  our  neighbor,  and  our  God. 

Our  neighbor,  who?     Our  duty  to  him,  what? 
In  palace  dwells  he,  or  in  humble  cot? 
Where'er  he  dwells,  'tis  he,  we  must  confess, 
Whom  we  can  aid :  our  duty  is  to  bless. 


DANIEL    A.    DROWN, 


SPRING   IS   COMING. 


ENIAL  Spring  once  more  is  coming, 


And  the  bees  will  soon  be  humming 

Round  the  scented  thyme  ; 
Now,  amid  the  mosses  sleeping, 
Purple  eyes  will  soon  be  peeping 
In  their  beauteous  prime. 


All  along  the  meadows  teeming, 
Like  bright  stars  in  valleys  gleaming, 

Golden  flowers  shall  bloom, 
Welcoming  each  sunny  ray, 
Which  around  their  leaves  shall  play, 

And  their  crowns  illume. 

Birdlings  from  the  Southern  clime, 
Glad  to  hail  this  pleasant  time, 

Now  in  crowds  appear  ; 
And  in  all  the  forest  bowers, 
Charming  all  the  morning  hours, 

Carol  sweet  and  clear. 


86  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Flowers  fair  in  meads  reposing, 
As  the  wintry  months  are  closing, 

Long  once  more  to  bloom  ; 
With  the  dew-drops  on  them  lying, 
While  the  northern  breeze  is  sighing 

No  more  o'er  their  tomb. 

Petals  from  green  nests  emerging 
Shall,  on  wavy  branches  surging, 

Sport  like  doves  on  high  ; 
Fluttering,  when  the  vernal  breeze 
Whispers  softly  through  the  trees, 

With  its  plaintive  sigh. 

Streamlets  through  green  valleys  flowing, 
All  their  joy  and  beauty  showing, 

Sparkling  clear  and  bright, 
Dance  along,  where  banks  of  flowers 
Soon  shall  bless  the  summer  hours, 

In  the  warm  sunlight. 

Fragrance  through  the  soft  air  stealing, 
Unseen  treasures  fast  revealing 

From  the  blooming  trees, 
Soon  shall  charm  the  rosy  morning, 
Beautified  with  fresh  adorning, 

Lading  every  breeze. 

Let  all,  in  these  pleasant  hours, 
Wander  in  the  woodland  bowers, 

In  the  morning  light, 

Seeking  health  and  strength  and  pleasure, 
Thanking  GOD  for  every  treasure 

That  can  cheer  the  sight.     . 


DANIEL  A.   DROWN.  87 


MAY. 

ONCE  more  the  fragrant  breath  of  Spring 

Speaks  kindly  unto  me, 
Though  emerald  twigs  and  opening  buds 

No  more  with  joy  I  see  ; 
But  well  I  know  a  snowy  cloud 

Of  blossoms  decks  the  trees, 
Inviting  with  mellifluous  sweets 

Gay  birds  and  honey-bees. 

The  dimpled  brooks,  long  held  in  chains 

By  Winter's  icy  hand, 
Now  speak  their  joy  with  native  grace, 

Which  we  may  not  withstand  ; 
And  flowers  nod  upon  the  banks, 

Kissed  by  the  laughing  stream, 
As  if  to  greet  upon  its  face 

Each  golden  sunny  beam. 

A  choral  anthem  floats  along, 

O'er  meadow,  field,  and  wood, 
Enlivening  with  melodious  strains 

The  deepest  solitude, 
Where  violets  profusely  bloom 

Within  each  mossy  dell, 
And  woo  warm  sunshine  through  the  leaves, 

And  speak  their  praises  well. 

I  love  to  think  of  the  new  life 

Which  decks  the  stately  trees, 
And  list  the  song  they  ever  sing, 

Fanned  by  the  vernal  breeze  ; 


88  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  love  to  read  upon  each  leaf 
This  sacred,  precious  truth,  — 

Though  we  must  die,  there  yet  remains 
A  blest  eternal  youth. 

A  genial  glow  our  pulses  thrills 

While  musing  on  the  scene, 
A  holy  charm  pervades  our  hearts, 

Of  purest  thoughts  serene  ; 
For,  in  each  leaf  and  opening  bud, 

A  higher  life  we  trace  : 
Our  drooping  forms  shall  be  revived 

And  crowned  with  heavenly  grace. 

HE,  who  now  dots  the  landscape  o'er 

With  flowers  pure  and  fair, 
Smiles  ever  on  his  children  here, 

And  makes  us  all  his  care  ; 
And  when  our  mission  is  fulfilled, 

Each  earthly  fetter  riven, 
For  us  within  the  pearly  gates 

Shall  bloom  a  Spring  in  heaven. 


MUSINGS  ON  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 

How  swiftly  ebb  the  waves  of  time 

Along  life's  broken  shore, 
Revealing  scenes  of  joy  and  pain, 

Which  charmed  and  grieved  before  ! 
For  memory  wakes  at  twilight  hour, 

While  musing  on  the  past, 
Recalling  bright  and  sunny  days, 

By  shadows  overcast. 


DANIEL  A.   DROWN.  89 

Upon  the  tide  of  hope  we  sail 

Adown  the  flowing  stream, 
Inspired  by  warm  and  earnest  zeal, 

And  many  a  thoughtful  dream. 
We  see  the  goal  towards  which  we  haste, 

Beaming  with  golden  light, 
Nor  fear  the  unknown  depths  which  hide 

The  dangers  of  the  night. 

Life's  voyage  bids  us  fearless  roam 

O'er  many  a  stormy  sea, 
With  boisterous  winds  still  urging  on, 

And  breakers  on  the  lea  ; 
But,  trusting  to  our  chart  and  guide, 

We  press  unwearied  on, 
Nor  rest  till  in  the  haven  sure 

The  welcome  prize  is  won. 

But,  ere  we  reach  that  "  open  sea," 

Beyond  this  earthly  veil, 
How  many  a  toilsome  course  we  make, 

Where  untried  storms  prevail ! 
But  cherished  hopes  are  often  hid 

Beneath  a  threatening  sky  ; 
And  many  a  weary  day  must  pass, 

Ere  light  will  beam  on  high. 

Blest  be  the  hope  which  cheers  our  heart, 

'Mid  darkness,  fears,  and  pain  ; 
There  yet  remains  a  welcome  rest,  — 

An  everlasting  gain. 
Beyond  the  ever-changing  scene 

Of  life's  tempestuous  tide, 
A  home  is  found,  where  purest  joys 

Eternally  abide. 


90  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


DEW  ON  THE   GRASS. 

How  beautiful  at  morning  light, 

When  summer  winds  are  sighing, 
To  view  the  sparkling  dew-drops  bright 

Upon  the  green  turf  lying, 
With  myriad  rainbows  circling  round 

These  crystal  forms  reposing 
So  humbly  near  the  thirsty  ground, 

As  night's  moist  wings  are  closing ! 

So  pure  and  fresh  the  gorgeous  scene, 

They  seem  a  diamond  sea, 
With  isles  of  amethyst  between, 

And  emerald  shores  to  lea  ; 
O'er  whose  bright  waters  blue-birds  skim, 

As  o'er  a  crystal  cup, 
To  sweetly  pour  their  morning  hymn, 

And  pick  the  jewels  up. 

As  silently  as  dews  distil, 

For  Nature  kindly  given, 
So  may  Thy  grace  my  bosom  fill 

With  choicest  gifts  from  Heaven  : 
E'en  though  I  lie  recumbent,  far 

Down  in  a  suffering  vale, 
Let  my  dark  night  know  one  bright  star, 

Nor  let  my  courage  fail. 

Within  this  valley,  let  me  feel 
The  dews  which  round  me  fall, 

Which  o'er  my  life  so  quiet  steal 
In  blessings  large  and  small ; 


DANIEL  A.  DROWN.  91 

Let  me  behold  in  sorrow's  night 

The  jewels  which  descend, 
Which  yet  shall  sparkle  in  the  light, 

When  life's  short  day  shall  end. 


"PAX  VOBISCUM." 

As  sweet  music  in  a  valley 

Floats  through  shady  aisles  along, 
Where  the  tinkling  ripplets'  murmur 

Only  joins  the  wavy  song ; 
So,  amid  my  own  deep  silence, 

Floated  near,  one  stilly  night, 
Silvery  strains,  whose  pleasant  echoes 

Filled  my  heart  with  cheering  light. 

Clear  the  voice,  and  pure  the  accents, 

Which  surprised  my  patient  ear, ' 
Ever  listening,  'mid  the  stillness, 

Some  good  angel's  wings  to  hear  ; 
And  they  stirred  within  my  bosom 

Thoughts  of  loved  ones  far  away, 
Who  might  send,  with  heavenly  blessing, 

Perfumed  words  to  light  my  way. 

When  the  heart  is  pained  and  weary, 

Sad  in  its  own  solitude, 
Is  it  not  to  sweetest  memories 

By  some  soothing  accents  wooed  ? 
Then  the  faintest  loving  echo 

Which  the  soul  has  ever  heard 
Vibrates,  \vith  a  lengthened  cadence, 

In  each  kindly  spoken  word. 


92  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

In  the  silent  midnight  hours, 

When  I  watch,  all  still  and  lone, 
I  would  claim  this  benison,  — 

"  Peace  be  with  you  !  "  —  for  my  own  : 
As  if  it  were  by  angels  spoken, 

I  would  feel  its  sacred  power, 
Welcome,  as  to  withering  flowers 

Comes  the  cool,  refreshing  shower. 

When  life's  storm  shall  gather  fierceness, 

And  its  clouds  shall  grow  more  dark  ; 
When  the  foamed-capped  billows  threaten 

To  ingulf  my  trembling  bark  ; 
Then,  amid  the  angry  waters, 

When  my 'strength  is  wholly  vain, 
May  strong  faith  "  beyond  the  river" 

See  the  smiles  of  "  Love  "  again. 

May  that  blessed  peace  sustain  me 

In  the  darkest,  saddest  hour, 
Which  a  Father's  love  bestoweth, 

When  the  clouds  of  sorrow  lower  ! 
Let  my  heart,  still  loving,  trusting, 

Safe  repose  in  His  own  will,  — 
Knowing,  in  each  fiery  trial, 

His  great  heart  but  loves  me  still. 


JA  ME  S     T.     FIE  LD  S. 


BALLAD   OF  THE   TEMPEST. 


were  crowded  in  the  cabin  ; 

-^ot  a  sou^  would  dare  to  sleep 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 


'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  in  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence  ; 

For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 
While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 

And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 

"  We  are  lost !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 


94  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 
As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 

"  Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean, 
Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?  " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer ; 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor, 
When  the  morn  was  shining:  clear. 


TO  T.  S.  K. 

Go  with  a  manly  heart, 

Where  courage  leads  the  brave  ; 

High  thoughts,  not  years,  have  stamped  their  part, 

Who  shunned  the  coward's  grave. 

Clear,  to  the  eye  of  youth, 
Their  record  stands  enrolled, 
Who  held  aloft  the  flag  of  Truth, 
Nor  slept  beneath  its  fold. 

They  heard  the  trumpet  sound 

Where  hosts  to  battle  trod, 

And  marched  along  that  burning  ground  : 

Fear  not !  they  rest  with  God. 

Like  them,  advance  in  love, 

And  upward  bend  thy  sight ; 

Win  Faith  through  Prayer  :  He  rules  above 

Who  still  protects  the  right. 


JAMES   T.  FIELDS.  95 


ON    A    BOOK    OF    SEA-MOSSES, 
Sent  to  an  Eminent  English  Poet. 

To  him  who  sang  of  Venice,  and  revealed 
How  Wealth  and  Glory  clustered  in  her  streets, 
And  poised  her  marble  domes  with  wondrous  skill, 
We  send  these  tributes,  plundered  from  the  sea. 
These  many-colored,  variegated  forms 
Sail  to  our  rougher  shores,  and  rise  and  fall 
To  the  deep  music  of  the  Atlantic  wave. 
Such  spoils  we  capture  where  the  rainbows  drop, 
Melting  in  ocean.     Here  are  broideries  strange, 
Wrought  by  the  sea-nymphs  from  their  golden  hair, 
And  wove  by  moonlight.     Gently  turn  the  leaf. 
From  narrow  cells,  scooped  in  the  rocks,  we  take 
These  fairy  textures,  lightly  moored  at  morn. 
Down  sunny  slopes,  outstretching  to  the  deep, 
We  roam  at  noon,  and  gather  shapes  like  these. 
Note  now  the  painted  webs  from  verdurous  isles, 
Festooned  and  spangled  in  sea-caves,  and  say 
What  hues  of  land  can  rival  tints  like  those, 
Torn  from  the  scarfs  and  gonfalons  of  kings 
Who  dwell  beneath  the  waters. 

Such  our  Gift, 

Culled  from  a  margin  of  the  Western  World, 
And  offered  unto  Genius,  in  the  Old. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


WORDSWORTH. 

1847. 

THE  grass  hung  wet  on  Rydal  banks, 
The  golden  day  with  pearls  adorning, 
When  side  by  side  with  him  we  walked, 
To  meet  midway  the  summer  morning. 

The  west-wind  took  a  softer  breath, 
The  sun  himself  seemed  brighter  shining, 
As  through  the  porch  the  minstrel  stepped, 
His  eye  sweet  Nature's  look  enshrining. 

He  passed  along  the  dewy  sward, 
The  linnet  sang  aloft,  "  Good  morrow  !  " 
He  plucked  a  bud  ;  the  flower  awoke, 
And  smiled  without  one  pang  of  sorrow. 

He  spoke  of  all  that  graced  the  scene 
In  tones  that  fell  like  music  round  us : 
We  felt  the  charm  descend,  nor  strove 
To  break  the  rapturous  spell  that  bound  us. 

We  listened  with  mysterious  awe, 

Strange  feelings  mingling  with  our  pleasure  ; 

We  heard  that  day  prophetic  words,  — 

High  thoughts  the  heart  must  always  treasure. 

Great  Nature's  Priest !  thy  calm  career 
With  that  sweet  morn  on  earth  has  ended  ; 
But  who  shall  say  thy  mission  died, 
When,  winged  for  heaven,  thy  soul  ascended  ? 


JAMES   T.   FIELDS.  97 


"  THE    STORMY   PETREL." 

WHERE  the  gray  crags  beat  back  the  northern  main, 

And  all  around,  the  ever  restless  waves, 

Like  white  sea-wolves,  howl  on  the  lonely  sands, 

Clings  a  low  roof,  close  by  the  sounding  surge. 

If,  in  your  summer  rambles  by  the  shore, 

His  spray-tost  cottage  you  may  chance  espy, 

Enter  and  greet  the  blind  old  mariner. 

Full  sixty  winters  he  has  watched  beside 
The  turbulent  ocean,  with  one  purpose  warmed  : 
To  rescue  drowning  men.     And  round  the  coast  — 
For  so  his  comrades  named  him  in  his  youth  — 
They  know  him  as  "  The  Stormy  Petrel  "  still. 

Once  he  was  lightning-swift,  and  strong ;  his  eyes 
Peered  through  the  dark,  and  far  discerned  the  wreck 
Plunged  on  the  reef.     Then  with  bold  speed  he  flew, 
The  life-boat  launched,  and  dared  the  smiting  rocks. 

'Tis  said  by  those  long  dwelling  near  his  door, 
That  hundreds  have  been  storm-saved  by  his  arm  ; 
That  never  was  he  known  to  sleep,  or  lag 
In-doors,  when  danger  swept  the  seas.     His  life 
Was  given  to  toil,  his  strength  to  perilous  blasts. 
In  freezing  floods  when  tempests  hurled  the  deep, 
And  battling  winds  clashed  in  their  icy  caves, 
Scared  housewives,  waking,  thought  of  him,  and  said, 
"  '  The  Stormy  Petrel '  is  abroad  to-night, 
And  watches  from  the  cliffs." 

7 


98  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

He  could  not  rest 

When  shipwrecked  forms  might  gasp  amid  the  waves, 
And  not  a  cry  be  answered  from  the  shore. 

Now  Heaven  has  quenched  his  sight ;  but  when  he  hears 

By  his  lone  hearth  the  sullen  sea-winds  clang, 

Or  listens,  in  the  mad,  wild,  drowning  night, 

As  younger  footsteps  hurry  o'er  the  beach 

To  pluck  the  sailor  from  his  sharp-fanged  death, — 

The  old  man  starts,  with  generous  impulse  thrilled, 

And,  with  the  natural  habit  of  his  heart, 

Calls  to  his  neighbors  in  a  cheery  tone, 

Tells  them  he'll  pilot  toward  the  signal  guns, 

And  then,  remembering  all  his  weight  of  years, 

Sinks  on  his  couch,  and  weeps  that  he  is  blind. 


AN    INVITATION. 

THE  warm  wide  hills  are  muffled  thick  with  green, 
And  fluttering  swallows  fill  the  air  with  song. 
Come  to  our  cottage-home.     Lowly  it  stands, 
Set  in  a  vale  of  flowers,  deep  fringed  with  grass. 
The  swectbrier  (noiseless  herald  of  the  place) 
Flies  with  its  odor,  meeting  all  who  roam 
With  welcome  footsteps  to  our  small  abode. 
No  splendid  cares  live  here,  —  no  barren  shows  ;  — 
The  bee  makes  harbor  at  our  perfumed  door, 
And  hums  all  day  his  breezy  note  of  joy. 

Come,  O  my  friend  !  and  share  our  festal  month, 
And  while  the  west-wind  walks  the  leafy  woods, 


JAMES   T.  FIELDS.  99 

While  orchard-blooms  are  white  in  all  the  lanes, 
And  brooks  make  music  in  the  deep,  cool  dells, 
Enjoy  the  golden  moments  as  they  pass, 
And  gain  new  strength  for  days  that  are  to  come. 


SPRING,   AMONG   THE    HILLS. 

SIT  and  talk  with  the  mountain  streams 

In  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  year, 
When  the  violet  gleams  through  the  golden  sunbeams, 

And  whispers,  "  Come  look  for  me  here,"  — 

In  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  year. 

I  will  show  you  a  glorious  nook, 

Where  the  censers  of  morning  are  swung  ; 

Nature  will  lend  you  her  bell  and  her  book, 
Where  the  chimes  of  the  forest  are  hung,  — 
And  the  censers  of  morning  are  swung. 

Come  and  breathe  in  this  heaven-sent  air 

The  breeze  that  the  wild-bird  inhales, 
Come  and  forget  that  life  has  a  care, 

In  these  exquisite  mountain-gales,  — 

The  breeze  that  the  wild-bird  inhales. 

Oh  wonders  of  God  !  oh  bounteous  and  good  ! 

We  feel  that  thy  presence  is  here,  — 
That  thine  audible  voice  is  abroad  in  this  wood, 
'  In  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  year,  — 

And  we  know  that  our  Father  is  here. 


100        POETS  OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


ON  A  PAIR  OF  ANTLERS  BROUGHT  FROM 
GERMANY. 

GIFT  from  the  land  of  song  and  wine, 

Can  I  forget  the  enchanted  day, 
When  first  along  the  glorious  Rhine 

I  heard  the  huntsman's  bugle  play, 
And  marked  the  early  star  that  dwells 

Among  the  cliffs  of  Drachenfels  ! 

Again  the  isles  of  beauty  rise  ; 

Again  the  crumbling  tower  appears, 
That  stands,  defying  stormy  skies, 

With  memories  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
And  dark  old  forests  wave  again, 

And  shadows  crowd  the  dusky  plain. 
/ 

They  brought  the  gift,  that  I  might  hear 
The  music  of  the  roaring  pine,  — 

To  fill  again  my  charmed  ear 

With  echoes  of  the  Rodenstein,  — 

With  echoes  of  the  silver  horn,  — 
Across  the  wailing  waters  borne. 

Trophies  of  spoil !  henceforth  your  place 

Is  in  this  quiet  home  of  mine  : 
Farewell  the  busy,  bloody  chase, 

Mute  emblems  now  of  "  auld  lang  syne," 
When  Youth  and  Hope  went  hand  in  hand 

To  roam  the  dear  old  German  land. 


JAMES   T.  FIELDS.  101 


RELICS. 

You  ask  me  why  with  such  a  jealous  care 

I  hoard  these  rings,  this  chain  of  silken  hair, 

This  cross  of  pearl,  this  simple  key  of  gold, 

And  all  these  trifles  which  my  hands  enfold. 

I'll  tell  you,  friend,  why  all  these  things  become 

My  blest  companions  when  remote  from  home  ; 

Why,  when  I  sleep,  these  first  secured  I  see, 

With  wakeful  eye  and  guarded  constancy. 

Each  little  token,  each  familiar  toy, 

My  mother  gave  her  once  too  happy  boy  ; 

Her  kiss  went  with  them  ;  —  chide  me,  then,  no  more, 

That  thus  I  count  my  treasures  o'er  and  o'er. 

Alas  !  she  sleeps  beneath  the  dust  of  years, 

And  these  few  flowers  I  water  with  my  tears ! 


SONG   IN   A  DREAM. 

WINTER  rose-leaves,  silver-white, 
Drifting  o'er  our  darling's  bed,  — 

He's  asleep,  withdrawn  from  sight,  - 
All  his  little  prayers  are  said, 
And  he  droops  his  shining  head. 

Winter  rose-leaves,  falling  still, 
Go  and  waken  his  sad  eyes, 

Touch  his  pillowed  rest,  until 

He  shall  start  with  .glad  surprise, 
And  from  slumber  sweet  arise  ! 


102  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


M.    W.    B. 

THEY  tell  me  thou  art  laid  to  rest, 

Companion  of  my  happiest  years  ! 
That  thou  hast  joined  the  loved  and  blest, 

Whose  early  graves  are  wet  with  tears ; 
That  I  shall  never  hear  again 

The  voice  that  charmed  my  boyhood's  ear, 
Nor  meet  among  the  haunts  of  men 

Thy  honest  grasp  of  love  sincere. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  my  buried  friend  ! 

Thy  step  was  gayest  in  the  ring ; 
My  thoughts  far  back  through  childhood  wend, 

And  can  I  now  thy  requiem  sing? 
Alas  !  I  feel  'tis  all  in  vain,  — 

Before  such  grief  my  spirits  bow  : 
Farewell !  I  cannot  trace  the  pain 

That  weighs  upon  my  heart-strings  now. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  ANGELS. 

Two  pilgrims  to  the  Holy  Land 
Passed  through  our  open  door,  — 

Two  sinless  Angels,  hand  in  hand, 
Have  reached  the  promised  shore. 

We  saw  them  take  their  heavenward  flight 
Through  floods  of  drowning  tears, 

And  felt,  in  woe's  bewildering  night, 
The  agony  of  years. 


JAMES   T.  FIELDS.  103 

But  now  we  watch  the  golden  path 

Their  blessed  feet  have  trod, 
And  know  that  voice  was  not  in  wrath 

Which  called  them  both  to  God. 


COMMON    SENSE. 

SHE  came  among  the  gathering  crowd, 
A  maiden  fair,  without  pretence  ; 
And  when  they  asked  her  humble  name, 
She  whispered  mildly,  "  Common  Sense." 

Her  modest  garb  drew  every  eye, 
Her  ample  cloak,  her  shoes  of  leather ; 
And,  when  they  sneered,  she  simply  said, 
"  I  dress  according  to  the  weather." 

They  argued  long,  and  reasoned  loud, 
In  dubious  Hindoo  phrase  mysterious, 
While  she,  poor  child,  could  not  divine 
Why  girls  so  young  should  be  so  serious. 

They  knew  the  length  of  Plato's  beard, 
And  how  the  scholars  wrote  in  Saturn  ; 
She  studied  authors  not  so  deep, 
And  took  the  Bible  for  her  pattern. 

And  so  she  said,  "  Excuse  me,  friends, 
I  find  all  have  their  proper  places  ; 
And  Common  Sense  should  stay  at  home 
With  cheerful  hearts  and  smiling  faces." 


104  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


TO   MY   LITTLE    FRIEND   AT   THE    SOUTH    END. 

DEAR  CHILD  !  what  thought  or  word  of  mine 

Is  worthy  thy  first  Valentine? 

Those  sweet  blue  eyes,  thy  witching  smile, 

(That  angel  hearts  might  well  beguile,) 

Have  claims  to  win  from  deeper  chords 

A  strain  beyond  my  simple  words. 

What  shall  I  wish  thee,  Baby,  fair? 

All  choicest  gifts  ?  —  Heaven's  kindly  care  ? 

Beauty  thou  hast :  a  world  of  love, 

Pure  as  the  purest  born  above, 

Lies  sleeping  in  that  little  face, 

In  mild  repose,  in  infant  grace. 

Ah  !  dearest  child  !  we'll  pray  that  thou 
Mayst  always  smile  on  us  as  now  ; 
That  years  may  bring  thee  added  charms  ; 
That  love  may  shield  thy  path  from  harms  ; 
And  all  that's  best  and  bright  below 
Around  thy  life-long  journey  flow. 

So  take,  Therese,  the  song  I  bring ; 
And  when  thou'rt  old  enough  to  sing, 
And  pass  me  by,  on  some  spring  day, 
When  all  my  locks  are  dangling  gray, 
(If  haply,  far  away,  my  head 
Is  not  then  pillowed  with  the  dead,) 
Forget  not  him  whose  lips  to  thine 
Were  pledged  to  write  this  Valentine  ! 


JAMES   T.  FIELDS.  105 


MARIAN   IN   HER   CELL. 
^After  the  Murder. 

You  looked  across  the  meadows 

At  the  red  sun  i'n  the  west, 
And  the  wood  was  full  of  shadows  ; 

But  my  head  lay  on  your  breast, 
And  your  words  were  low  and  sweet, 
And  our  hearts  in  music  beat. 

You  spoke,  —  I  only  listened, — 

(Blest  hours  without  alloy  !) 
You  sang,  —  my  tear-drops  glistened,  — 

I  was  dumb  and  blind  with  joy. 
Could  I  hear  your  bridal  bell  — 
You  in  Heaven,  and  I  in  Hell ! 

Could  I  stop  the  cursed  blade, 

At  your  throat  so  warm  and  white  ; 

Where  my  loving  fingers  played 

With  the  moonlight  through  the  night? 

Could  I  think,  and  hold  the  steel ! 

Could  I  pause,  and  live  to  feel ! 

By  the  hallowed  word  of  God 
There  is  Murder  on  your  soul ! 

As  I  knelt  upon  the  sod 

Where  the  death-black  waters  roll, 

I  could  hear  the  angry  flood 

Calling,  hoarsely,  "  Blood  for  Blood  I" 


106  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


LOT    SKINNER'S    ELEGY. 

LOT  SKINNER  was  the  meanest  man 

That  ever  saved  his  neck  ; 
He  grudged  the  very  bre'ath  he  drew, 

As  if  it  were  a  check. 

When  he  was  in  the  grocer  line, 

And  turning  fruit  to  gold, 
He'd  bite  a  raisin  straight  in  halves 

To  make  the  weight  he  sold. 

Day  in  and  out,  through  heat  and  cold, 

For  thirty  years  or  more, 
He  well  observed  the  copper-mean, 

And  —  something  blessed  his  store. 

He  never  gave  a  dime  away, 

He  never  lost  a  pin  ; 
A  ninepence  saved  rejoiced  him  more 

Than  taking  ninepence  in. 

Of  counterfeited  bills  he  used 

The  best  of  every  kind, 
Which  in  the  way  of  trade  he  kept, 

To  swap  off  on  the  blind. 

The  poor  came  round  his  counter's  edge, 

And  raised  a  feeble  cry  : 
"  Don't  speak  so  loud,"  the  rogue  exclaimed, 

"  For  I  am  always  nigh." 


JAMES    T.   FIELDS.  107 

"  'Tis  little  things  that  make  a  pile,"  — 

(This  maxim  he  could  trust.) 
So,  when  he  sawed  his  pile  of  wood, 

He  always  saved  the  dust. 

He  had  but  one  book  in  the  house, 

And  that  he  never  read  ! 
'Twas  called  "  Economy  of  Life,"  — 

And  did  him  good,  he  said. 

He  welcomed  in  the  rising  moon,  — 

'Twas  such  a  cheerful  sight ; 
For  then  he'd  blow  the  candle  out, 

And  use  the  gratis  light. 

He  liked  in  other  people's  pews 

To  settle  meekly  down, 
And  steal  his  preaching,  here  and  there, 

By  sneaking  round  the  town. 

Sometimes  we  saw  a  greenish  smile 

Coil  up  his  bony  face  : 
'Twas  when  the  parson  chose  a  theme 

That  spoke  of  saving  grace. 

At  last  it  cost  so  much  to  live,  — 

(Per  day  some  twenty  cents,) 
"  I  won't  stand  this  !  "  he  inly  groaned, 

And  died  to  save  expense. 

Now,  having  gone  where  all  his  means 

Are  shut  up  in  a  box, 
He  cannot  lift  that  heavy  lid 

The  careful  sexton  locks. 


108  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Adieu  !  thou  scrap  of  lifeless  clay  ! 

Thou  pale-ink  human  blot !     •• 
This  line  shall  be  thine  epitaph,  — 

"  An  unproductive  Lot  I  " 


THE  OLD   YEAR. 

THE  white  dawn  glimmered,  and  he  said,  "  'Tis  day  !  " 
The  east  was  reddening,  and  he  sighed,  "  Farewell !  " 
The  herald  Sun  came  forth,  and  he  was  dead. 

Life  was  in  all  his  veins  but  yestermorn, 

And  ruddy  health  seemed  laughing  on  his  lips  ; 

Now  he  is  dust,  and  will  not  breathe  again  ! 

Give  him  a  place  to  lay  his  regal  head, 
Give  him  a  tomb  beside  his  brothers  gone, 
Give  him  a  tablet  for  his  deeds  and  name  ! 

Hear  the  new  voice  that  claims  the  vacant  throne, 
Take  the  new  hand  outstretched  to  meet  thy  kiss, 
But  give  the  Past  —  'tis  all  thou  canst  —  thy  tears  ! 


WOODBURT  M.    FERNALD. 


TRIBUTE    OF   AFFECTION   TO   THE   LATE   REV. 
THOMAS    STARR   KING. 


TAR  of  the  West !  thy  rising  and  thy  setting, 

Like  a  fair  planet  in  the  evening  sky,  — 
How  brief  the  space  !  but,  ah,  how  past  for 
getting 
The  glory  of  that  fleeting  brilliancy  ! 


Sweet  soul  of  love  !  I've  watched  thy  early  dawning, 
E'en  from  thy  childhood's  innocence  and  play, 

When  first  the  glow  and  beauty  of  life's  morning 
Gave  promise  of  the  glory  of  the  day. 

Fair  day  to  us  !  a  time  of  cheerful  gladness, 

Continual  summer,  and  a  genial  sky : 
Oh,  could  some  genius,  without  shade  or  sadness, 

View  but  thy  nature  with  thy  practised  eye  ! 

What  scenes  of  flowing  and  of  radiant  beauty  !  — 
Fair  fields  of  verdure  ;  silver  rolling  streams  ; 

Mountains  of  grandeur,  stern  and  bold  as  duty, 
O'er  which  the  sunlight  of  the  spirit  gleams  ; 


110  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

An  inner  world,  —  a  world  of  pure  emotion, 
With  fruit  and  foliage,  rich  with  golden  store  ; 

And  broad  expanse  of  sky  and  air  and  ocean, 
With  waves  still  breaking  on  that  mystic  shore. 

Ah  !  'twas  suck  nature,  genial  friend  and  brother, 
That  from  thy  spirit  looked  so  truly  out, 

In  rapt  responses,  to  behold  another, 

To  lift  the  soul,  and  banish  every  doubt. 

But  thou  art  risen,  —  gone  to  be  transfigured 
In  that  high  world  where  angels  hold  their  seat, 

And  where  diviner  scenes,  to  souls  delivered, 
Thy  wondering  vision  shall  in  glory  greet. 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  not  as  gone  for  ever 
E'en  from  the  earth  thou  so  delightedst  in  ; 

For  nought  can  such  an  intimacy  sever 
With  the  sweet  soul  of  all  things  so  akin. 

And  long  as  Nature  wears  her  wondrous  beauty  ; 

Long  as  the  mountains  tower  in  heights  sublime  ; 
Or,  in  the  higher  walks  of  Christian  duty, 

Great  Heaven  hath  need  of  earnestness  like  thine  ; 

While  patriot  Truth  may  wake  a  slumbering  nation  ; 

And  gaunt  Rebellion  strike  fair  Freedom's  form  : 
So  long  thine  influence,  like  a  sweet  oblation, 

Shall  blend  with  ours,  and  face  the  threatening  storm. 

Not  gone  from  us  !  for,  like  the  trembling  wire 
That  flashed  afar  the  tidings  of  thy  death, 

So  thy  quick  spirit  hath  but  to  desire, 

And  thou  art  here,  —  we  feel  thy  quickening  breath. 


WOODBURY  M.  FERNALD.  Ill 

And  thus,  dear  Starr,  for  ever  shall  we  cherish 
Thyself,  thy  virtues,  all  thy  kindling  love  ; 

Passed  from  our  sight,  but,  nevermore  to  perish, 
Rising  and  shining  in  new  light  above. 


BEAUTY   OF   CHARACTER. 

"  All  the  angels  are  forms  of  their  own  affections.1'  —  SWEDENBORG. 

LADY,  there  is  one  truth,  and  one  alone, 

Which,  to  the  lover  of  the  beautiful, 

In  person  or  in  manners,  stands  supreme. 

It  is  that  good  alone,  in  its  fair  form, 

Is  Beauty.     All  else  perishes.     The  eye 

Of  light,  with  its  bewitching  fire  ;  the  brow, 

The  cheek,  the  lip,  the  graceful  form  ;   all  the 

Fair  symmetry  that's  held  so  dear,  in  man 

Or  woman,  must,  by  the  eternal  law 

Of  the  Creator's  power,  which  moulds  and  shapes 

All  outward  forms  from  inward  essences, 

At  last  be  made  to  correspond  to  the 

Indwelling  spirit.     Then  one  only  thing  — 

When  outward  forms  have  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  nature's  indistinguishable  earth 

Holds  all  that  hath  so  charmed  us  —  one  thing  then, 

Of  all  we  had  admired,  shall  have  the  power 

To  assume  this  mystic  grace.     Remember,  lady, 

It  is  CHARACTER  ! 

When  virtue's  plastic  spirit  hath  inwrought, 
And  love,  sweet  sympathy,  and  tenderness, 
And  melting  charity  for  others'  woes, 
And  patience,  gentleness,  and  humble  trust, 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


Have  all  conspired  to  fix  the  angelic  form  — 

To  shape  the  countenance,  to  light  the  eye, 

To  give  the  curve  and  all  the  lineament 

To  this  immortal  and  this  living  sculpture 

Of  heaven's  divinest  work  —  oh  !  that  shall  last. 

When  sun  and  moon  and  stars  decay,  and  time 

Itself  expires,  and  sin  alone  takes  on, 

In  the  dark  regions  of  eternity, 

The  shape  and  hue  of  dread  deformity, 

This  shall  for  ever  freshen  and  delight. 

'Tis  virtue's  own  and  high  prerogative  ;  — 

The  very  essence  of  divinest  beauty, 

Such  as  pure  angels  love,  and  God  himself 

In  holiness  admires. 


MY   SOUL  AND   ME. 
Written  on  the  Island  of  Nantucket,  Jan.  2,  1858. 

O  GOD  !  a  sense  of  loneliness  to-day 
Comes  over  me,  as  I  am  far  away 

From  wife  and  home  ; 

Sadly  I  roam 

O'er  this  dear  island  of  the  deep  blue  sea,  — 
Engulfing  waters  round,  —  my  soul  and  me. 

Ah  yes,  'tis  this,  —  this  mystic,  double  me  ; 
This  sense  of  something  which  I  cannot  see  ; 

So  near,  so  far, 

No  midnight  star 

More  distant  seems,  or  nearer  shines  more  bright, 
When,  as  to-day,  dark  clouds  blend  with  the  light. 


WOODBURY  M.  FEENALD.  113 

Ah  me  !  that  very  nearness  'tis  which  makes 
An  island  of  my  soul,  and  almost  shakes 

The  solid  land, 

The  mind's  firm  stand, 

Girt  round  with  waters  far  more  deep  and  drear 
Than  all  old  ocean  has  to  offer  here. 

This  double  self — what  is  it?    I  have  met, 
Here  in  this  Island  Home  where  I  am  set, 

Fair  beauty's  form, 

And  welcomes  warm, 

From  eyes  and  voices  thrilling  with  delight, 
That  grace  the  homes  by  day,  the  halls  by  night ;  — 

I've  listened  to  the  melodies  of  sense, 
Such  as  melodious  souls  alone  dispense  ; 

The  voice  of  song, 

The  fancy  throng 

Of  sun-bright  memories  waked  from  classic  heart, 
With  wit,  refinement,  eloquence,  and  art. 

But  still  this  mystic  being  drooped  and  fell ; 
No  wit  could  liven,  and  no  charm  dispel ; 

Lonely,  my  soul, 

Thou  art  not  whole, 

For  that  which  now  is  felt  most  near  to  me 
Leaves  me  a  mateless  wanderer  by  the  sea. 

Oh  Heaven,  I  see  !  —  'Tis  but  my  Soul  and  Me 
That  thus  communes  with  solitude  so  free  : 

Fast  by  my  side, 

Immortal  Bride, 

Thou  walkest  with  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
And  'tis  my  blindness  that  afflicts  me  so. 


114  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  want  but  sight.     She's  all  my  soul  desired. 
The  great  ideal  —  beauty,  love  inspired, 

Came  from  her  heart, 

With  gentlest  art, 

And  all  that  clouds  the  heaven  of  my  mind 
Is  that  my  other  self  I  cannot  find. 

Joy  !  Joy  !  and  welcome  to  this  heart  of  thine, 
For  wheresoe'er  thou  art,  thou  still  art  mine  ; 

In  earth  or  heaven, 

To  me  thou'rt  given, 

To  cheer  my  lonely  hours  and  make  me  glad, 
And  be  most  near  me  when  I  am  most  sad. 


A   VISION   OF  THE   ETERNAL   GLORY. 

0  GOD  of  glory !  when  with  eye  uplifted, 
Eye  of  the  soul  in  visioned  wonder  clear  ; 

And  when  by  thine  eternal  Spirit  gifted, 
What  deep  revealings  to  the  soul  appear  ! 

Nature  recedes ;  and  in  the  expanse  eternal, 
Spreading  and  opening  to  my  raptured  sight, 

1  see  the  hosts  of  God,  the  heights  supernal, 

The  church  triumphant  crowned  in  heaven's  own 

light. 

• 

Ah  !  there  are  they  who,  once  among  the  lowly, 
Erst  trod  the  paths  of  patient  virtue  here  ; 

And  there  are  they  who,  in  thy  presence  holy, 
Trembled  for  sin,  but  knew  no  other  fear  : 


WOODBURY  M.  FEENALD.  115 

Prophets,  reformers,  —  they  who,  God  revering, 
Battled  with  hoary  wrong  and  ancient  might ; 

Behold  them  now  in  triumph  re-appearing 
On  all  the  hills  of  God,  in  glory  bright ! 

In  deepening  vision,  flames  a  light  before  them, 
Where  a  long  train  of  martyrs  rise  to  view  ; 

And,  lo  !  a  central  figure  bending  o'er  them,  — 
The  dear  Redeemer  crowning  them  anew. 

Victors  and  heroes  all,  I  see  them  waving 

Triumphant  palms,  in  robes  of  purest  white  : 

No  more  the  terrors  of  the  conflict  braving, 

Peace  is  their  lot,  and  heaven  their  high  delight 


LONELINESS. 

I  AM  lonely  ;  I  am  lonely  ! 
O  my  Father  !  'tis  not  only 
That  I  feel  no  presence  with  me,  drawing  near  my 

weary  soul ; 

But  it  is  that  very  presence, 
With  its  quick  and  subtle  essence, 

Touching  all  the  floods  of  feeling  that  in  anguish  o'er 
me  roll. 

O  my  Father  !  could  my  spirit, 
Mounting  upward,  thus  inherit 

Joys   of  sympathetic    nature    from   a   true,  accordant 
sphere, 


116  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Oh  how  swiftly,  oh  how  freely, 
Would  I  flee  from  all  beneath  me, 
Soaring  to  the  far-off  regions  and  from  all  that  trou- 
bleth  here ! 


In  that  high  and  deep  revealing, 
Touching  all  the  secret  feeling 
Of  my  soul's  imprisoned  nature,  here  in  darkness  and 

in  grief, 

Should  I  chance  to  find  the  greeting, 
In  a  true  and  spirit  meeting, 

Of  but  one  who  truly  knows  me,  'twere  a  sweet  and 
blest  relief. 


One  there  must  be.     And  the  others,  — 
Friends,  companions,  sisters,  brothers,  — 
Small  the  circle,  if  congenial,  that  sufficeth  for  my 

peace  : 

Farewell,  then,  this  earth's  confusion, 
Social  mockeries,  heart's  delusion  ; 
Come  the  sweet  and  satisfying  s"oul's  communion  and 
release. 


Son  of  God,  too,  shall  I  call  thee? 
Lo  !  the  sin  that  doth  inthrall  me, 
Still  inviting,   still  attracting  demons  foul  about  my 

way; 

Ah  !  no  solitude  so  dreary, 
And  no  company  so  weary  ; 

Break  this  bondage,  blest  Redeemer !    and  I  rise  to 
cheerful  day. 


WOODBURY  M.  FERNALD.  117 

Not  then  lonely  ;  lo  !  above  me, 
Where  the  dear  ones  are  that  love  me, 

Gleams  athwart  my  raptured  vision,  from  a  bright  and 

blissful  shore, 

Shadowy  forms  that  hover  o'er  me, 
Lights  that  glimmer  now  before  me, 

Waking  in  my  lonely  bosom  life  and  joy  for  evermore. 


Hail,  my  soul !  the  blest  presentment ; 
Learn  from  it  the  sweet  contentment 
Of  a   life   so  large   and  noble,  spreading  forth  from 

sphere  to  sphere, 

That,  when  earthly  joys  forsake  thee, 
Heaven  to  its  embrace  may  take  thee, 
In  a  grand  and  high  communion,  free  from  all  that 
troubleth  here. 


THE   AMERICAN   FLAG. 
A   Song. 

HAIL  !  glorious  ensign  of  the  free, 
Token  of  gladdening  hope  to  me, 

My  co.untry,  and  the  world  ; 
Ten  thousand  pealing  cheers  be  given, 
And  million  souls  be  touched  of  heaven, 
Where'er  thou  art  unfurled. 
For  thee  the  patriot  braveth 

The  soldier's  fearless  death  ; 

And  where  it  proudly  waveth, 

He  yields  his  willing  breath. 


118  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Flow  on,  broad  banner  ;  every  fold 
Some  great  idea  shall  uphold, 

And  waft  it  round  the  earth  : 
Each  wind  of  heaven,  evermore, 
Shall  blow  it  forth  from  shore  to  shore, 
Flag  of  a  Nation's  birth  ! 
O'er  every  hill  and  valley, 

From  East  to  Western  coast, 
Around  it  all  shall  rally  — 
A  brave  and  mighty  host. 


Its  flaming  beams  of  holy  light, 
Its  martyr  red,  its  truthful  white, 

Its  starry  heaven  of  blue,  — 
In  flowing  beauty  on  the  air, 
Its  kindling  message  shall  declare, 
With  glories  ever  new. 
On  every  noble  river, 

On  every  mountain  height, 
It  calls  us  to  deliver 

The  land  from  Slavery's  blight. 


Ye  sons  of  Freedom,  bear  it  on  !  — 
It  has  in  thousand  victories  shone, 

March  boldly  to  the  last : 
For  lo  !  the  Star  of  Destiny 
Now  brightly  gleams  in  Freedom's  sky, 
Above  war's  stormy  blast ! 

Wave  !  then,  o'er  land  and  ocean, 
From  spire  and  dome  and  tree, 
Flag  of  our  heart's  devotion, 
Till  all  the  bond  are  free  ! 


WOODBUBY  M.  FEBNALD. 


119 


Then  to  the  lands  beyond  the  seas, 
Where  tyrants  write  their  stern  decrees, 

And  old  oppression  reigns  ; 
Be  thou  the  hope  of  future  years, 
Banner  that  every  despot  fears, 
Symbol  of  falling  chains  ! 
To  every  land  and  nation 

Beneath  the  circling  sun, 
Wave  !  flag  of  our  salvation, 
Till  Freedom's  work  is  done. 


SARAH    H.     FOSTER. 


AUGUST,  1864. 


HEY  ask,  where  are  my  songs  for  thee, 

Thrice  dear  and  cherished  land  ! 
They  know  not  that  the  trembling  heart 

Unnerves  the  tuneful  hand  ; 
They  know  not  that  the  troubled  soul 

Bids  all  sweet  fancies  fly, 
As  Summer's  minstrels  mutely  cower 
Beneath  a  stormy  sky. 


ii. 

Ask  one  who  loves,  to  part  in  song 

From  friends  of  early  years  ; 
The  song  would  faint  beneath  its  theme, 

And  tremble  into  tears. 
The  harmony  of  life  is  drawn 

By  gentle  touch  alone  : 
The  deepest  note,  when  struck,  gives  back 

Not  music,  but  a  moan. 


SARAH  II.  FOSTER. 


in. 

A  stronger  voice  than  mine  must  ring 

The  clarion  note  of  war  ; 
A  higher  flight  than  mine  must  scan 

The  morning  from  afar  ; 
The  flowers  I  fain  would  pluck  for  thee, 

With  woful  drops  are  wet ; 
The  cloud  too  closely  o'er  us  lowers 

To  see  the  morning  yet. 


IV. 

The  lurid  smoke  of  battlefields 

Obscures  the  blessed  light ; 
The  stars  of  promise  faintly  shine 

To  cheer  the  lengthened  night ; 
The  wail  from  out  thy  thousand  homes 

Hath  hushed  the  angels'  strain  ; 
Glory  to  God  !  we  still  can  hear,  — 

Oh  !  when  the  "  PEACE  "  again? 


v. 

When  God  hath  cleansed  away  thy  curse, 

And  speaks  thy  penance  dorie  ; 
When  all  thy  children  join  to  hail 

The  rise  of  Freedom's  sun  : 
Then  will  the  sons  of  God  again 

The  unbroken  anthem  raise, 
Nor  will  earth's  humblest  lyre  refuse 

To  echo  back  the  praise. 


POETS  OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


ST.  PAUL  AT  ROME. 
2  Tim.  iv.  6-8. 

Tnou  stately  Empress,  with  disdainful  foot 

Upon  the  neck  of  the  submissive  world, 

Fair,  marble-towered  Rome  !  not  earth  alone 

Bends  her  attentive  eyes  upon  thee  now : 

Heaven's  angel  host's  on  their  celestial  cars 

Above  thee  pause.     Watch  they  your  lordly  dome, 

Where  throned  caprice  plays  with  a  nation's  fate  ? 

Your  laurelled  band  that  Fame  herself  hath  crowned  ? 

Thy  proud  patricians,  or  thy  martial  pomp, 

Self-conscious  city?     A  neglected  guest 

Within  thee  stands,  before  whose  glorious  light 

The  judgment-day  shall  see  thine  own  go  out ; 

Whose  name  Eternity  has  written  down 

Higher  than  thine  !     Beside  his  lowly  door 

True  victory  stands,  whose  shadow  thou  hast  chased 

O'er  Egypt's  fatal  sands,  and  Scythia's  snows ! 

The  good  fight  he  has  fought,  the  course  has  won : 

Above  his  humble  roof,  a  winged  guard 

Wait  his  approach,  with  chariot  of  fire, 

And  pomp  of  escort,  to  the  King  of  kings. 

The  hour  of  his  departure  is  at  hand : 

Yea,  soon  shall  he  depart,  and  be  with  Christ. 

Oh,  glorious  hope  that  lights  that  upward  eye  ! 

Oh,  faith  made  sight,  that  sees  in  heaven's  ark 

The  crown  of  righteousness  laid  up  for  him  ! 

Through  the  bright  courts  his  tranced  spirit  flies,  — 

The  boundless  riches  man  conceiveth  not,  — 

And  sees  one  chief,  one  best,  to  be  with  Christ ! 


SARAH  H.  FOSTER.  123 

That  form  benign  whose  footstep,  scarce  effaced, 
Earth  thrilled  to  bear  ;  whose  glory,  since  revealed, 
Hath  blazed  conviction  on  his  blinded  sense  ; 
Whose    name    his   watchword    and    his    power    hath 

been, — 

The  Chi'ist  he  lived,  — will  make  it  gain  to  die  ! 
Fly,  fly,  rapt  soul !  to  meet  the  expected  smile 
To  whose  reward  all  else  was  counted  dross, 
Dust  on  the  balances  :  why  turnest  thou 
From  heaven's  expanded  gate,  and  bend'st  again 
Thy  lofty  eye  to  earth?     One  message  more 
To  thy  loved  brethren,  soon  forlorn  of  thee  ; 
One  pleading  of  His  name,  one  girding-up 
Thy  spirit  to  its  final  strife,  and  then 
Thanks  be  to  God  who  giveth  thee  the  victory  ! 


THE   CROWN   OF  THORNS. 

HATH  earth  no  other  diadem  for  thee, 

O  Christ,  anointed  King  of  Majesty ! 

No  crown  but  one  of  thorns  to  suit  thy  royalty  ? 

Her  wide-spread  empires,  and  her  treasures  stored, 

No  pomp  of  sovereignty  can  they  afford? 

No  wreath  of  glorious  light  to  lay  before  her  Lord  ? 

Bring  forth  the  wreath  by  conquering  heroes  worn : 
Alas,  how  many  brows  that  wreath  has  torn  ! 
What  is  the  Victor's  crown  but  one  of  thorns? 

Let  Mammon's  hand  his  coronet  present, 

Lo  !  gilded  care,  and  jewelled  discontent !  — 

Small  rest  for  weary  heads  beneath  such  burden  bent ! 


124  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Where  is  thy  laurel  fit  for  high  renown? 

Envy  has  seared  it,  hate  hath  torn  it  down  : 

Ah,  pale-browed  sons  of  fame,  ye  wear  a  thorny  crown  ! 

The  flowery  wreath  of  sweet  affection  bring : 

But,  lo  !  among  the  flowers  a  piercing  sting,  — 

The  heart  that  loveth  best  must  sharpest  sorrows  wring. 

Aye,  lay  thy  crown  of  thorns  before  His  feet : 
'Tis  thy  best  guerdon,  thy  reward  most  meet,  — 
More  fit  such  open  woe  than  bitter  hid  in  sweet. 

Refuse  the  offering  not,  O  Prince  divine  ! 
Upon  thy  brow  it  will  transfigured  shine  : 
Wear  thou  our  crown,  that  so  our  souls  may  rise  to 
thine. 

No  more  the  thorn  a  sign  of  curse  shall  be  ; 
Henceforth  a  trophy  of  thy  victory : 
Pain,  sorrow,  loss,  are  blest  since  they  are  shared  by 
thee. 


THE     CRICKET. 

I. 

Ix  the  fading  Summer's  stillness, 

Through  the  pallid  light, 
Comes  the  crickets'  chirping,  chirping, 

With  the  sinking  night : 
No  other  sound  beneath  the  twilight  sky,  — 
The  ceaseless  monotone  of  that  low  cry. 


SARAH  H.  FOSTER.  125 

II. 

Rising  from  the  shady  meadows, 

From  the  dusky  lea, 
Call  it  not  a  sound  of  gladness  : 

'Tis  a  dirge  to  me,  — 

'Tis  beauty's  passing  bell,  in  sadness  rung ; 
'Tis  her  own  requiem,  by  Summer  sung. 


in. 
Glowing  flowers,  the  gifts  of  Autumn, 

Crown  her  dying  state  : 
Laughing  in  the  sunny  noontide, 

She  forgets  her  fate  ; 

But,  with  the  evening,  sadder  thoughts  arise  : 
She  sings  herself  to  sleep  with  tearful  eyes,  — 


IV. 

Sadder  thoughts  than  day  can  cherish, 

Full  of  fond  regret ; 
Thoughts  of  early  hopes  defeated, 

Early  glories  set ; 

Spring's  joyous  promise,  ah,  how  unfulfilled  !  — 
Her  roses  perished,  and  her  minstrels  stilled. 


v. 
Cease  thy  chirping,  pensive  inse6t ! 

Summoned  by  thy  note, 
Thronging  images  unbidden 

Through  the  fancy  float : 

Mem'ry  counts  up  her  cherished  stores  again, 
And  finds  her  choicest  treasures  turned  to  pain. 


126  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

VI. 

Echoes  of  familiar  voices, 

Ah,  the  voices  gone  ! 
Shadows  of  beloved  faces, 

Shadows  now  alone  ! 

Sweet  homelike  scenes  portrayed  in  childhood's  years, 
Drawn  by  the  sunshine,  now  baptized  in  tears. 

VII. 

Weeping  Mem'ry  clasps  her  jewels, 

Changed,  but  dearer  yet ! 
Weeping  with  the  sad  foreboding 

That  she  may  forget : 

Will  not  these  echoes  cease,  these  shadows  fly? 
O  mournful,  mournful  cricket !  cease  thy  cry. 


THE   CHANT  OF   OCEAN. 

'Tis  the  hush  of  early  twilight ; 

And  calmly  the  western  gray, 
With  voiceless  gesture  arising, 

Hath  motioned  the  night  away. 

Over  the  western  landscape 
The  obedient  night  hath  gone, 

As,  with  a  foot  of  silence, 
Comes  in  the  winter  morn. 

No  hum  from  the  whitened  meadow ; 

No  chorus  from  the  tree  ; 
No  sound  in  the  frosty  stillness, 

But  the  roar  of  the  distant  sea  ! 


SARAH  H.  FOSTEB.  127 

The  Earth  lies  listening  mutely 

To  the  deep,  mysterious  strain, 
That,  all  night  long,  with  her  visions 

Has  mingled  its  low  refrain. 

All  night  o'er  the  snow-hushed  forest, 

And  over  the  mountain's  steep, 
That  music  has  swelled  and  fallen,  — 

The  anthem  of  the  deep  ! 

As  monks  in  the  old  cathedral 

Their  midnight  masses  chant, 
Till  the  lights  on  the  holy  altar 

In  the  morning  splendors  faint ; 

So  chants  the  solemn  ocean, 

Till  the  torches  of  the  night 
Are  quenched  on  the  arch  of  heaven, 

At  the  signal  of  the  light. 

Dawn  on  the  whitened  meadow  ; 

Dawn  on  the  snowy  lea  ; 
No  sound  in  the  frosty  stillness, 

But  the  chant  of  the  distant  sea. 


FANNIE  E.   FOSTER. 


THE   POET'S   GRAVE. 

WEET  Spring  approached  with  fairy  feet, 

And  gladsome  smiles  she  wore  ; 
But  why  conies  not  her  poet  forth 
To  greet  her  as  of  yore? 


She  sought  him  in  the  fields  and  groves, 

Along  the  murmuring  rills  ; 
And  sent  her  birds  with  sweetest  songs 

To  lure  him  to  the  hills  ; ' 

Then  strewed  around  her  fairest  flowers, 
And  bid  the  perfumed  breeze 

Awake  sweet  melody  for  him 
In  all  the  forest-trees. 

The  winding  brooks  ran  here  and  there, 

In  every  calm  retreat, 
To  see  if  they  a  trace  could  find 

Of  their  lost  poet's  feet. 

At  length  a  wandering  zephyr  caught 

The  loved,  familiar  sound 
Of  music,  hovering  just  above 

A  sweet,  low,  grassy  mound. 


FANNIE  E.  FOSTEE.  129 

Its  tones  were  so  refined  and  pure, 

That  mortals  scarce  might  hear  ; 
And  told,  that,  with  the  poet  now, 

'Twas  spring-time  all  the  year. 

Then  gentle  Spring,  with  showers  of  tears, 

The  sweet,  low  mound  did  lave  ; 
And  dear  forget-me-nots  sprang  up 

All  o'er  the  poet's  grave. 


THE   BLIND   MAN'S    CRY. 

A  CROWD  to  Jericho  approached  ; 

And,  lo  !  as  on  they  sped, 
A  blind  man  sat  beside  the  way, 

And  asked  his  daily  bread. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  many  feet, 

And  sought  the  reason  why  ; 
And  learned  that  Jesus,  David's  son, 

Of  Nazareth,  passed  by. 

His  heart  for  joy  within  him  leaped  ; 

For  well  he  knew  'twas  he 
Who  healed  the  sick,  and  raised  the  dead, 

And  made  the  blind  to  see. 

And  loudly  now  on  him  he  calls  ; 

And  still  his  tones  increase, 
As  voices  from  the  crowd  he  hears, 

Bidding  him  hold  his  peace. 
9 


130  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But  One,  on  whom  none  calls  in  vain, 

Had  also  heard  his  cry, 
And  stopped  to  hear  the  sufferer's  prayer, 

As  he  was  passing  by. 

He  hears  that  kind  and  gentle  voice 

Ask  what  his  wish  may  be : 
He  had  but  one  in  the  wide  world,  — 

That  was,  —  that  he  might  see. 

But  who  the  blind  man's  joy  can  tell, 

When  broke  upon  his  night 
The  heavenly  radiance  of  His  face, 

Who  said,  "  Receive  thy  sight"? 

O  sick  of  soul,  and  blind  of  heart ! 

Why  lift  ye  not  your  cry  ? 
Since  He,  who  hath  all  power  to  save, 

To-day  is  passing  by. 


I  WILL  NOT  FEAR  TO  DIE. 

I  WILL  not  fear  to  die, 

Since  this  at  last  I  know,  — 

I  cannot  from  God's  thought  fade  out, 
From  his  dear  presence  go. 

Death  does  not  abrogate  his  care  ; 

And  so,  henceforward,  I, 
Rejoicing  still  in  him  to  live, 

Will  fear  no  more  to  die. 


REV.    SAMUEL   HAVEN,   D.  D. 

BORN  1727  ;  DIED  1806. 


ON  RESIGNATION  AND   HOPE  IN  GOD  UNDER 
TROUBLES. 


E  still  my  heart,  be  mute  my  tongue  ; 
Thou  ne'er,  as  yet,  hast  suffered  wrong 
A  Father's  love  inflicts  the  rod, 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  thy  God. 


Do  thunders  roar  and  billows  roll? 
Do  tempests  beat  upon  thy  soul  ? 
They  are  directed  by  his  hand, 
To  drive  thee  to  the  promised  land. 

Great  Lord  of  all !  thy  will  is  just : 
We  rest  secure  ;  we  firmly  trust, 
That  what  thy  will  approves  as  good 
Results  alike  from  all  of  God. 

Thy  wisdom,  power,  and  grace  combine 
To  prove  the  whole  an  act  divine : 
E'en  justice  here  unites  with  grace, 
And  shines  with  lustre  in  thy  face. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


Shall  mortals  then  contend  on  earth? 
Shall  they  forget  their  humble  birth, 
And  quarrel  with  the  Power  above, 
Or  dare  dispute  that  God  is  love  ? 

Hush,  murmuring  thoughts  !  my  tongue  be  still, 
My  heart  resign  to  Heaven's  high  will  ; 
Trust  all  to  him,  —  he  can't  deceive  : 
The  humble  soul  shall  surely  live. 


ON  EVIL  SURMISINGS. 

ALAS  !  the  eye  perverse, 
Which  never  looks  within  ; 

But,  ever  eager,  looks  aside 
To  spy  another's  sin. 

Alas  !  the  heart  deceived, 

Which  swells  with  cursed  pride, 
Crying,  "  I'm  free  from  every  sin  : 

Let  others  stand  aside." 

My  soul !  thou  know'st  enough 
To  keep  thee  humble  still ; 

For,  oh  !  how  often  do  thy  sins 
Prevail  against  thy  will ! 

Grant,  Heaven,  that  I  may  ne'er 
Invade  thy  awful  throne  ; 

And,  e'er  I  search  for  others'  faults, 
Oh,  cleanse  me  from  my  own  ! 


REV.   SAMUEL  HAVEN,  D.D.  133 


THE   PRAISE   OF   ANGELS. 


Ps.  ciii.  20:  "  Bless  the  Lord,  ye  his  angels,  that  excel  in  strength  ;  that  do  his 
commandments,  hearkening  unto  the  voice  of  his  word." 


LET  cherub  and  let  cherubim 
Clap  their  blest  wings  in  praise  of  Him  ; 
And  all  their  powers  in  rapture  raise, 
While  their  great  object  is  his  praise. 

He  formed  their  nature  like  his  own, 
And  placed  their  ranks  around  his  throne  ; 
But  conscious  distance  veiled  their  face  : 
They  bowed,  adoring  wondrous  grace. 

Ye  first-born  sons  of  early  day, 
Sing  to  his  praise,  his  will  obey  ; 
And  while  you  fly  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  other  systems  round  you  roll, 

You'll  aid  his  praise,  till  all  at  last, 
When  ages  yet  unborn  are  passed, 
Centre  in  one,  —  in  one  great  throng, 
In  perfect  unison  their  song. 

Angels  and  men  their  voice  shall  raise 
In  sweetest  concert  to  his  praise  : 
The  great  MESSIAH  th'en  shall  shine, 
Arrayed  in  glories  all  divine,  — 
The  head  of  angels  and  of  men, 
Uniting  all  to  God  again. 


134  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


ON  THE  QUESTION  BEING  ASKED,  —  WHAT  TITLE 
SHALL  BE  GIVEN  TO  PRESIDENT  WASHINGTON, 
ON  HIS  VISIT  TO  PORTSMOUTH? 

FAME  spread  her  wings,  and  with  her  trumpet  blew, 
Great  WASHINGTON  is  near  !  —  what  praise  his  due? 
What  title  shall  he  have  ?     She  paused,  and  said, 
Not  one,  —  his  Name  alone  strikes  every  title  dead. 


NATHANIEL   APPLE  TON  HAVEN. 


BORN  1790 ;  DIED  1826. 


A     FRAGMENT. 

sweeps  the  northern  blast 
Along  the  dreary  way, 
While  from  the  ice-bound  streams 
The  chilling  moonbeams  play  ; 
Yet  still  I  love  to  linger  here, 
While  sad  Remembrance  claims  a  tear 
For  joys,  which  youthful  Fancy  brought, 
When  Pleasure  stamped  each  glowing  thought. 


Ah  !  then  what  scenes  arose  ! 

What  pleasure  thrilled  the  breast ! 

How  beamed  the  distant  world, 

In  dazzling  splendor  dressed  ! 

Ambition  waked  each  dormant  power, 
While  Fancy  lured  me  to  her  bower  ; 
Hope's  day  star  beamed  ;  the  flattering  ray 
Presaged  a  bright,  a  prosperous  day. 


136  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But  now  the  scene  how  changed  ! 

What  clouds  of  darkness  roll ! 

Cold  each  aspiring  thought,  — 

The  winter  of  the  soul ! 

No  more  my  bosom  swells  with  joy, 
No  flattering  scenes  my  thoughts  employ ; 
But  hopes  once  fondly  cherished  seem 
The  phantoms  of  a  feverish  dream. 

Thou  God  of  all,  whose  power 
The  elements  obey, 
Save  me  from  Passion's  rage, 
From  Pleasure's  maddening  sway  ! 

Thou  seest  my  heart  with  rapture  glow, 
Thou  seest  my  life-blood  swiftly  flow, 
When  Fancy,  Pleasure,  Passion,  fire 
Reason  too  weak  to  rule  desire. 
Ah  !  when,  from  all  illusion  free, 
Shall  every  hope  be  placed  in  thee? 


PSALM   CXXX. 
De  profundis  clamavi. 

FROM  sin's  dark  depths,  my  God,  to  thee 
I  pour  in  tears  my  faltering  prayer : 

Oh,  hear  my  cry  of  agony  ! 

Oh,  save  me,  save  me  from  despair  ! 

For,  if  thy  justice  should  pursue 

Whate'er  of  guilt  thine  eye  hath  known, 

Oh  !  \vho  could  bear  thy  piercing  view, 
Or  stand  before  thy  awful  throne? 


NATHANIEL  APPLE  TON  HAVEN.  137 

But  them  canst  burst  the  twofold  chain 
That  binds  me  still  to  sin  and  woe  ; 

And  thou  canst  cleanse  the  earthly  stain 
That  tells  my  fall  before  my  foe. 

Oh  !  free  me,  cleanse  me,  bid  me  live  ; 

And  bondage,  guilt,  and  death  remove  : 
And,  while  I  tremble,  still  forgive  ; 

For  thou  art  mercy,  thou  art  love. 

Then  by  thy  mercy  reconciled, 

Boundless,  unmerited,  and  free, 
Saviour  !  receive  thy  long-lost  child, 

His  life,  his  hope,  his  all  in  thee. 


LINES   ON  AUTUMN. 

I  LOVE  the  dewTs  of  night, 

I  love  the  howling  wind, 
I  love  to  hear  the  tempest  sweep 
O'er  the  billows  of  the  deep  ; 
For  Nature's  saddest  scenes  delight 

The  melancholy  mind. 

Autumn  !  I  love  thy  bower 
With  faded  garlands  dressed  : 
How  sweet  alone  to  linger  there, 
When  tempests  ride  the  midnight  air  ! 
To  snatch  from  mirth  a  fleeting  hour,  - 
The  sabbath  of  the  breast ! 


138  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Autumn  !  I  love  thee  well, 
Though  bleak  thy  breezes  blow  : 
I  love  to  see  the  vapors  rise, 
And  clouds  roll  wildly  round  the  skies, 
Where  from  the  plain  the  mountains  swell, 
And  foaming  torrents  flow. 

Autumn  !  thy  fading  flowers 
.   Droop  but  to  bloom  again  ; 
So  man,  though  doomed  to  grief  awhile, 
To  hang  on  fortune's  fickle  smile, 
Shall  glow  in  heaven  with  nobler  powers, 

Nor  sigh  for  peace  in  vain. 


THE   PURSE   OF   CHARITY. 

THIS  little  purse,  of  silver  thread 

And  silken  cord  entwined, 
Was  given  to  ease  the  painful  bed, 

And  soothe  the  anxious  mind. 

The  maker's  secret  bounty  flows 

To  bid  the  poor  rejoice  ; 
And  many  a  child  of  sorrow  knows 

The  music  of  her  voice. 

The  little  purse  her  hands  have  wrought 
Should  bear  her  image  still ; 

And,  with  her  generous  feelings  fraught, 
Her  liberal  plans  fulfil. 


NATHANIEL  APPLE  TON  HAVEN.  139 

Its  glittering  thread  should  never  daunt 

The  humble  child  of  woe  ; 
But  well  the  asking  eye  of  want 

Its  silver  spring  should  know. 

While  age  or  youth  with  misery  dwell, 

To  cold  neglect  consigned, 
No  useless  treasures  e'er  should  swell 

The  purse  with  silver  twined. 


HYMN   FOR  THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY,    1813. 

FATHER,  again  before  thy  throne, 

Thy  suppliant  children  humbly  pray  ; 

With  grateful  hearts  thy  mercy  own, 
That  crowns  once  more  their  natal  day. 

Though  War  our  fertile  valleys  stain, 
Though  Slaughter  bare  his  gory  hand, 

Though  Famine  lead  her  ghastly  train, 
We  glory  in  our  native  land. 

Yes  :  'tis  our  own,  our  fathers'  home,  — 
Their  ashes  rest  beneath  the  sod  : 

The  fields  that  now  our  children  roam, 
Their  footsteps  once  as  gladly  trod. 

Our  hardy  sons,  who  till  the  earth, 
Undaunted  still  will  danger  face  : 

The  land  that  gave  our  fathers  birth 
Will  never  bear  a  coward  race. 


140  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

The  gallant  few,  who  plough  the  deep, 
Can  sternly  meet  the  raging  storm ; 

And  o'er  the  swelling  ocean  sweep, 
Unmoved  at  Danger's  giant  form. 

But  braver  hearts  have  shrunk  from  fight, 
When  kindred  blood  must  dye  the  steel : 

The  boldest  to  contend  for  right 
The  ties  of  nature  strongest  feel. 

Father,  once  more  "  good-will "  proclaim, 
And  bid  conflicting  passions  cease  ; 

Repress  each  proud,  ambitious  aim, 

And  give  thy  suppliant  children  "  peace." 


STANZAS. 

"  Apres  ma  mort,  quand  toutes  mes  parties 
Par  la  corruption  sont  aneanties, 
Par  un  meme  destin  il  ne  pensera  plus  !  " 

LE  GRAND. 


ARE  these  the  dictates  of  eternal  truth  ?  — 
These  the  glad  news  your  boasted  reason  brings? 
Can  these  control  the  restless  fire  of  youth, 
The  craft  of  statesmen,  or  the  pride  of  kings? 

Whence  is  the  throb  that  swells  my  rising  breast  ? 
What  lofty  hopes  my  beating  heart  inspire  ? 
Why  do  I  proudly  spurn  inglorious  rest, 
The  pomp  of  wealth,  the  tumult  of  desire  ? 

Is  it  to  swell  the  brazen  trump  of  fame, 
To  bind  the  laurel  round  an  aching  head, 
To  hear  for  once  a  people's  loud  acclaim, 
Then  lie  for  ever  with  the  nameless  dead? 


NATHANIEL  APPLE  TON  HAVEN. 


141 


Oh,  no  !  far  nobler  hopes  my  life  control, 
Presenting  scenes  of  splendor  yet  to  be  : 
Great  God,  thy  word  direcls  the  lofty  soul 
To  live  for  glory,  not  from  man,  but  thee. 


CAROLINE    ELIZABETH   JENNESS. 

BOR>-  1824 ;  DIED  1858. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  MY  GARDEN. 

AIR  Flowers  in  my  garden  grow  ; 

No  fairer  Flowers  this  earth  can  show 

Each  one,  a  miracle  of  art, 
Hath  won  how  many  a  poet's  heart ! 
And,  though  misnamed,  how  many  still 
Recall  the  poet's  mystic  skill ! 
O  Flowers  !  affection's  sweetest  token, 
The  pledge  of  faith  and  troth  unbroken ! 
O  fairest,  frailest  Flowers  !  ye  can 
No  labor  do  for  toiling  man, 
But  bloom,  returning  love  for  love,  — 
Meek  messengers  of  heaven  above. 
How  many  sorrows  ye  have  soothed  ! 
How  many  doubting  fears  removed  ! 
First,  with  the  Spring,  children  of  love, 
The  Hyacinths  my  care  approve  ; 
For  love  I  rather  see  than  woe 
On  Hyacinthus'  floweret  grow, 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.          143 

Which  sprang  all  bleeding  from  the  sods, 

Red  with  his  frolic  with  the  gods : 

O  feeblest  love,  which  could  not  save, 

Even  when  immortal,  from  the  grave ! 

But,  sweetest  Crocus  !  wast  thou  born 

Of  Hermes'  grief  for  one  alone  ? 

Or,  youth  too  loving,  hath  some  power 

Immortalized  love  in  a  flower? 

And  here  are  Pansies  freaked  with  jet ; 

And  here  the  sombre  Violet ; 

While  close  the  Cowslips  hide  in  green, 

The  pensioners  of  the  Fairy  Queen. 

And  low  the  nodding  blossoms  wave 

Which  grew  on  fond  Narcissus'  grave, 

Who  loved  his  shadow  on  the  stream, 

And  died  of  love  ;  for  none,  I  ween, 

Not  even  the  Nereids,  were  so  fair,  — 

Fairer  than  Scylla,  fairest  there  ; 

While  famed  St.  Edward's  royal  flower, 

The  brown  Imperial,  rules  the  hour  ; 

Later,  Spring  Tulips,  passion-fired  ; 

And  Honeysuckles  well  attired  ; 

And  Pinks  and  Larkspurs  blue  and  dark, 

Like  birds  imprisoned  on  the  stalk  ; 

Canterbury's  Cathedral  Bell, 

Whose  notes  with  swaying  breezes  swell, 

By  golden  tongues,  with  rise  and  falls, 

Swinging  in  amethystine  walls  ; 

And  sweeter  Bells,  with  azure  dyes, 

Which  caught  their  color  from  the  skies  ; 

And  here  the  great  White  Lily  springs, 

Rarest  of  all  rare  blossomings,  — 

Born  of  that  milk  which  gave,  sweet  shower ! 

A  god  to  heaven,  to  earth  a  flower, 


144  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Second  to  none  which  Summer  brings, 
"  Lilies,"  perchance  the  Mantuan  sings, 
"  The  sylvan  gods  bore  in  their  hands  ;  " 
Or  sweeter  song,  in  Christian  lands, 
Says  that  it  blossoms  on  the  days 
Sacred  unto  the  Virgin's  praise. 
But,  Fleur  de  Lis  !  mysterious  flower 
Carved  on  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  power,  — 
An  emblem,  would  fond  Fancy  ask, 
Of  the  great  Hebrew  and  his  task. 
O  wondrous  flower,  Fleur  de  Lis  ! 
Old  and  new  France  will  blazon  thee  ! 
Drawn  by  an  angel's  pen  at  night 

Upon  the  banner  of  her  host, 
The  heavens  glowing  with  strange  light, 

Strange  echoes  startling  all  the  coast, 
Oft  folded  o'er  the  Indian's  rest, 
And  Canada's  ungenial  breast,  — 
O  proudest  Lily,  none  like  thee 
Have  spread  their  wings  o'er  land  and  sea  ! 
Here  Mangolds  their  florets  spread, 
Like  glories  round  the  Virgin's  head  ; 
And  red  Nasturtiums,  rich  and  rare, 
Sparkle  to  greet  the  evening  air, 
Which  once,  on  some  triumphal  gate, 
Added  fresh  glory  to  the  State  ; 
Whose  leaves  are  shields  that  heroes  bear, 
Its  flowers  the  helmets  heroes  wear. 
And  here  the  Heliotrope's  soft  dyes 
Turn  to  the  sun,  like  Clyte's  eyes ; 
And,  underneath  the  wall  and  thorn, 
Grow  flowers  of  Mintha,  maid  forlorn, 
The  prey  of  Proserpine's  proud  scorn,  — 
Mintha,  whose  crushed  leaves  distil 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.          145 

The  comfort  she  could  never  feel. 
And  here  the  gaudy  flower  appears 
Which  sprang  from  Helen's  flowing  tears,  — 
Bold  flower,  not  half  so  sweetly  glowing 
As  those  fair  buds,  which,  clew  bestowing, 
Wakened  by  Phyllis'  mournful  doom, 
Blushed  into  life  and  sweet  perfume. 
These  could  I  number,  more  than  these  ; 
Nor  once  would  gather  Daphne's  leaves, 
Who  with  ambitious  laurels  strove 
To  soothe  Apollo's  ardent  love. 
But,  fairest  flower  !  them  Queen  of  Flowers  ! 
I  watch  thee  most  in  sun  and  showers, 
Who  hast  the  nightingale's  warm  heart, 
Thy  perfumes  of  his  song  a  part ; 
For  Fable  says,  that  Flora,  straying 
Through  summer  woods,  and  oft  delaying, 
Found  in  a  covert  still  and  dark 
A  Dryad  maiden  cold  and  stark,  — 
So  pale,  alas  !  —  dear  gods  defend 
All  maidens  from  so  sad  an  end  ! 
And  Flora,  mourning  o'er  her  loss, 
Made  of  her  essence,  free  from  dross, 
A  Rose  as  lovely  as  her  face ; 
And  every  god  did  add  some  grace,  — 
A  Rose  all  blanched  like  her  own  beauty ; 
But  Cupid,  missing  of  his  duty, 
O'erturned  some  nectar  on  the  flower, 
Which  crimson  grew  beneath  the  shower, 
And,  in  love's  warm  and  tender  flush, 
Rivalled  her  beauty's  living  blush. 
O  Rose  of  Love  !  what  flower  like  this,  — 
The  type  of  sorrow,  type  of  bliss  ? 
10 


146  POETS    OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

In  dewy  garlands,  freshly  made, 

I  wore  thee  once  upon  my  head  ; 

Now,  hid  in  silence  on  my  heart, 

Part  of  my  love  and  grief  a  part : 

O  Rose  !  my  love,  though  dead,  still  blooms  ; 

Faded  like  thee,  still  breathes  perfumes. 


REPOSE. 

ON  downy  pillows  lain,  she  prays  : 

Her  soft  eyes  ope  and  close  again  ; 
And,  unto  her  unfinished  prayer, 

The  angels  say  the  glad  "  Amen  ;  " 
While,  half-unclasped  her  languid  hands, 

She  sleeps  with  such  a  gentle  art, 
That  scarce  her  heaving  limbs  betray 

The  quiet  heaving  of  her  heart : 
So  quick  asleep,  not  hidden  quite, 
Her  lovely  limbs  peep  to  the  light 
The  envious  down  would  hide  from  sight. 

Her  golden  hair  curls  round  her  cap  ; 

And,  as  her  rosy  lips  unclose, 
The  easy  breathings  falter  forth 

Like  perfumes  loath  to  leave  a  rose  ; 
And,  dimly  bright,  the  lashes  seem 

To  steal  light  from  her  eyes  in  mirth, 
Or  as  some  homesick  beams,  returned 

Unto  the  suns  that  gave  them  birth  ; 
While,  gathered  in  her  snowy  breast, 
Life  and  the  Loves  together  rest : 
How  could  they  leave  so  sweet  a  nest? 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.          147 

The  air  is  sweet ;  for  dying  flowers 

Send  their  last  breath  to  scenes  like  this ; 
And,  sighing,  blows  the  love-sick  wind, 

Trembling  to  meet  her  with  a  kiss : 
While,  with  a  faint  and  dreamy  light, 

The  lamp  half  shows,  half  hides  her  face, 
As  night  were,  by  itself  illumed, 

Burning  to  see  her  lovely  face  ; 
And  worthless  Fancy  flieth  thence, 
Where  she  lies  sleeping,  with  shut  sense, 
Like  the  child-goddess,  Innocence. 


FEAR     NOT. 

I  WILL  not  fear,  I  will  not  fear ; 

For  He  is  by  my  side  : 
In  pastures  fair  he  leadeth  me, 

In  pastures  green  and  wide, 
And  by  the  rivers  calm  and  clear, 

And  where  bright  waters  roll : 
I  will  not  fear,  I  will  not  fear  ; 

His  strength  is  in  my  soul. 

He  watcheth  me  amid  the  storm, 

And  on  the  raging  sea  ; 
His  guidance  is  my  steadfast  hope, 

When  earthly  hopes  may  flee. 
I  weep  no  more  for  grief  or  woe, 

And  I  will  fear  no  ill : 
He  loveth  me,  he  feedeth  me  : 

My  God  is  with  me  still* 


148  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


LOVE     FLIES. 

LOVE  flies,  Love  flies  ! 

Round  his  throat  is  floating  all  his  golden  hair  ; 
On  each  dimpled  shoulder  snowy  wings  there  are  : 
While  his  empty  quiver  down  his  back  is  hung, 
On  his  arm  he  beareth  forth  his  bow  unstrung ; 
While  he  looketh  backward,  laughing  from  his  eyes, 
"  Love  flies,  Love  flies  !  " 

All  the  flowers  are  drooping,  birds  in  silence  fly, 
And  the  brutes,  neglected,  raise  a  piteous  cry  ; 
While  the  winds  of  Autumn  o'er  the  meadows  mourn, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  shows  the  coming  storm  ; 
And  lone  Echo  answers,  —  answers  and  replies,  — 
"  Love  flies,  Love  flies  !  " 

Idly  falls  the  hammer,  idly  turns  the  wheel ; 
And  the  careless  spinner  often  drops  her  reel ; 
Hushed  the  song  and  whistle,  hushed  the  joking  strain  ; 
Hymen,  pale  and  fainting,  fans  a  flickering  flame  ; 
While  sad  Faith,  attending,  languishes,  and  sighs, 
"  Love  flies,  Love  flies  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  cries  Love,  half  pouting,  "  if  I  fly  before, 
I  would  wait  you,  mortals,  on  a  better  shore  : 
Always  ye  reproach  me,  —  now  I  will  return, 
All  re-armed,  to  plague  you  till  your  planet  burn  : 
Last  to  leave,  oh !  gladly  then  you'll  raise  your  cries, 
"Love  flies,  Love  flies  !  " 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.          149 


EPITAPH. 

HERE,  within  this  silent  dell, 

Where  the  moss  is  old  and  hoary, 
Where  the  turf  is  green  the  latest, 
And  the  Fall  leaves  fade  the  fairest, 

Lies  a  maid  of  humble  story. 
She  had  loved  —  ah,  common  lesson  ! 
Tenderly,  and  was  forgotten  ; 
And  when,  weeping,  sleep  o'ercame  her, 
Angels  suffered  none  to  wake  her. 
Oft  the  brightly  dawning  morning, 

Oft  the  birds  upon  the  ground, 
Singing  softly,  seem  to  call  her 

To  the  happy  life  around  : 
But  the  Eve,  with  dewy  fingers, 

Decks  her  mould  with  fragrant  sighs  ; 
And  kind  Pity,  leaning  o'er  her, 

Drops  a  requiem  from  her  eyes  ; 
While  the  violets,  blooming",  dying, 

Lay  their  leaves  upon  her  breast, 
As  if  their  true  love  could  bring  her 

Healing  for  a  heart  distressed. 
Wandering  here,  perchance,  kind  strarfger, 
Where  the  Zephyrs,  glad  to  linger, 

Balmy  sweetness  borrow  ; 
Where  e'en  Grief  loops  up  her  tresses,  — 
Do  not  sigh  or  breathe  kind  wishes, 

That  she  could  share  thy  morrow, 
But  sing  dirges  softly  o'er  her, 
Lest  unpitying  Love  disturb  her 

With  a  dream  of  sorrow. 


150  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


CHRISTMAS    HYMN. 

THERE  came  no  pealing  trumpet ; 

No  banner  borne  on  high  ; 
No  clanging  drum  or  cymbal, 

That  stirred  the  air  and  sky. 

They  strewed  no  palms  by  the  wayside  ; 

There  was  no  listening  throng 
To  sing  glad  songs  of  triumph, 

With  voices  deep  and  strong. 

No  censer  there  was  wreathing, 
With  dim  and  perfumed  shrouds, 

Around  the  holy  Stranger, 
In  soft  and  purple  clouds. 

And  kings  still  bore  the  sceptre, 

Yet  bowed  not  lowly  down 
Before  the  holy  Son  of  God, 

With  his  immortal  crown. 

In  k>wliness,  forgotten, 

A  manger  for  his  bed, 
On  his  young  mother's  bosom 

The  Saviour  laid  his  head. 

And  save  the  thrilling  music 
Of  harp-strings  struck  above, 

By  the  cherubim  of  heaven, 
Around  the  throne  of  Love  ; 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.          151 

And  save  the  starry  beacon 

That  shone  in  light  on  high, — 
There  was  no  word  to  welcome  him, 

The  Son  of  earth  and  sky. 

Thou  Star  of  glory  !  lead  us  ; 

Thou  Music  deep  and  sweet, 
Lead  us  unto  the  manger  ; 

Lead  us  to  Jesus'  feet ! 


THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   YOUTH. 

The  first  discoverers  of  America  believed  that  there  was  a  fountain  in  Florida,  which 
possessed  the  miraculous  power  of  restoring  youth  to  the  aged. 

WE  are  travelling  on  to  the  Fountain  of  Youth ; 

Yet,  brothers,  stay  awhile, 
And  dream  once  more  of  our  sunny  land, 

Where  the  laughing  vineyards  smile  : 
Then  our  steps  we'll  speed,  though  weary  and  faint^ 

To  the  dim  and  distant  shore, 
Where  we  deem  that  the  clouds  of  sorrow  and  grief 

Will  darken  our  eyes  no  more. 

For  they  tell  us,  that  there,  in  that  radiant  land, 

That  beautiful  land  of  dreams, 
The  summer  and  sunshine  do  never  pass 

From  the  blue  and  silvery  streams  ; 
And  a  dim  and  strange  mysterious  strength 

On  the  sparkling  rills  has  lain  ; 
For  the  spirit  of  God  has  breathed  on  the  waves, 

And  they  bring  us  our  youth  again. 


152  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Then  speed,  let  us  speed,  to  the  glorious  strand 

Where  the  gems  lie  thick  like  dew  ; 
And  bathe  in  the  fount  and  the  murmuring  rills 

That  bring  us  our  youth  anew  : 
For  our  life  is  a  cold  and  weary  thing 

In  this  mansion-house  of  woe  ; 
But  pain  will  flee  on  the  emerald  banks, 

Where  the  lulling  waters  flow. 

But  they  never  found  the  Fountain  of  Youth 

On  that  lonely  and  lovely  shore, 
And  their  wasted  joys  and  their  rifled  gems 

Came  back  to  their  souls  no  more : 
Yet  they  found  a  stream  of  enduring  strength, 

Whose  beauty  can  never  fade, 
More  bright  than  the  rivers  of  light  that  flow 

In  the  wilderness'  gloom  and  shade. 

For  their  faith  grew  firm,  and  their  trust  more  deep, 

In  the  spirit  of  God  above  ; 
And  their  hearts  were  filled  with  a  holier  hope, 

.A  higher  and  purer  love. 
Their  souls  were  strong,  for  they  knew  that  their  tears 

Had  not  been  given  in  vain  ; 
And  they  found  the  Fountain  of  Youth  on  high, 

In  the  Eden  land  again. 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  JENNESS.          153 


THE   PLOUGHMAN'S   DAUGHTER. 

"  THE  ploughman's  merry  daughter,  — 

What  hair  hath  she,  I  pray?" 
I  asked  two  sturdy  farmers, 

Who  lingered  by  the  way. 
"  Ah  !  brown,"  one  answered  gayly, 

"  And  soft  as  fleece  e'er  spun.  " 
"  Nay,  golden,"  sighed  the  other  ; 

"  For  I've  seen  it  in  the  sun." 

"What  eyes  hath  she,  good  people?" 

One  answered,  "  Tender  blue, 
And  softer  than  the  iris 

When  wet  with  morning  dew." 
"  Nay,  sharper,"  cried  the  other, 

When  scarce  the  first  had  done, 
"  Than  my  sickle  in  the  meadow 

"  Beneath  an  August  sun." 

"  And  speaks  she  fair,  good  people  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  sweet,"  the  elder  said, 
"  Like  soft  winds  o'er  the  clover  ;  " 

But  low  the  younger  plead, 
"  Nay,  say  her  cold  voice  ringeth 

Clear  as  the  evening  bell 
That  oft  misleads  the  stranger 

In  yonder  echoing  dell. 

Perplexed,  and  wanting  wisdom, 

I  sought  beyond  the  moor, 
Where  the  ploughman's  merry  daughter 

Was  spinning  by  the  door  ; 


154  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Nor  knew,  'twixt  light  and  shadow, 
If  her  hair  were  brown  or  gold, 

Nor  'mid  the  rose  and  lily 
The  faithful  color  told. 

Too  long  her  eyes  I  pondered, 

Where  true  love  seemed  to  lie  ; 
Too  loud  I  praised  her,  hearing 

Her  sweet  song  floating  by  : 
When  quick,  in  mocking  laughter, 

Out  rang  her  merry  voice  ; 
And,  weeping,  to  the  farmers 

I  turned,  and  made  no  choice. 


MINISTRY  OF  GRIEF. 

O  LOVE  !  Ambition  !  watchwords  of  man's  zeal  I  hear  ; 
And  I  in  vain  would  answer  from  my  house  of  clay, 
Tired  of  my  tedious  bondage  many  a  troubled  year ; 
And  still  I  question,  sadly  question,  night  and  day, 
Why  was  I  born  to  weary  out  love's  self  with  grief, 
To  waste  in  idleness,  or  struggles  for  relief  ? 
So,  grieving,  half  distraught,  I  saw  the  birds  at  dawn 
Beating  against  the  winds  in  their  careering  flight ; 
And  those  same  winds,  'gainst  which  they  struggled 

in  the  morn, 
Bore  their  light  wings,  o'erwearied,  gently  home   at 

night. 

And  so,  dear  friend,  these  very  trials,  bravely  borne, 
May  bear  my  heart  at  last  to  its  own  brighter  Home  ! 


HARRIET   McEWEN  K  1MB  ALL. 


THE  TWO   CITIES. 

N  the  dusky  shores  of  evening,  stretched  in 

shining  peace  it  lies,  — 

City  built  of  clouds  and  sunshine,  wonder  of 
the  western  skies  ! 


While  I  watch,  and  long  for  pinions  thitherward   to 

take  my  flight, 
Slowly  the  aerial  city  fades  and  vanishes  from  sight. 

Ruby  dome  and  silver  temple,  circling  wall  of  amethyst, 
Fall  in  silence,  leaving  only  purple  ruin  hung  with 

mist.  \ 

i 
Darkness  gathers  eastward,  westward  ;  stronger  wax- 

eth  my  desire, 
Reaching  through  celestial  spaces,  glittering  as  with 

rain  of  fire, 

To  the  City  set  in  jasper,  having  twelve  foundations 

fair, 
Flashing  from  their  jewelled  splendor  every  color  soft 

and  rare. 


156  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Twelve  in  number  are  its  gateways,  —  numbered  by 

the  Seer  of  old,  — 
Every  gate  a  pearl  most  lustrous  ;   and  its  streets  are 

paved  with  gold. 

In  the  midst,  in  dazzling  whiteness,  lightens  the  Eter 
nal  Throne  ; 

From  it  flows  the  Living  Water,  round  it  gleams  an 
emerald  zone. 

Luscious  fruits  and  balmy  odors,  healing  leaves  and 

cooling  shade, 
Either  side  the  Life-tree  sheddeth,  by  sweet  storms  of 

music  swayed. 

O  thou  grand,  untempled  City  !  seen  by  John  in  visions 

bright, 
Glory-flooded,  needing  neither  sun  by  day  nor  moon 

by  night, 

Filled  for  ever  and  for  ever  by  the  shining  light  of 

Him 
Who  redeemed  the  world,  and  sitteth  throned  between 

the  seraphim, — 

Through  thy  lovely  gates  the  nations  of  the  saved  in 

triumph  stream, 
Chanting  praise  above  all  praises  ;    love  of  love  their 

holy  theme. 

They  no  more  shall  thirst  or  hunger ;   they  no  more 

with  heat  shall  faint : 
Christ  for  tears  will  give  them  gladness,  —  blissful  rest 

for  sore  complaint. 


HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL.  157 

Blessed  they  who  do  his  bidding !  cries  the  angel,  day 

and  night ; 
They  shall  find  abundant  entrance,  they  shall  walk 

with  him  in  white  ! 


DAY    LILIES. 

O  SUMMER  day, 
Delay  !  delay  ! 

One  waving  of  thy  brooding  wing, 
One  stirring  of  thy  hazy  wing, 

And  noontide  light  and  heat 
Will  find  my  dewy  shadow-lair, 

And  burn  the  coolness  from  the  grasses 

That  swathe  my  feet 

In  rank  and  billowy  masses  ; 
And  to  this  claustral  twilight  bring 
The  sun's  profanest  glare. 

O  summer  day, 
Delay !  delay  ! 
Let  naked  hill  and  bare  brown  field 

Parch  in  thy  torrid  ray, 
So  this  dim  nook  be  unrevealed, 

Where  I, 
Deliciously  concealed, 

Among  the  Lilies  lie. 
The  delicate  Day  Lilies  ! 
The  white  and  wonderful  Lilies  ! 
My  dark  green  haunt  so  still  is, 
The  wildest  birdling  dare  not  sing  ; 


158  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Nor  insect  beat  a  gossamer  wing ; 
Nor  zephyr  lift  the  lightest  thing,  — 

Here,  where  the  lustrous  Lilies, 

The  clear,  resplendent  Lilies, 
Pour  out  their  heavenly  sweet  perfume, 

And  with  their  snowiness, 
In  clusters  chaste,  illume 

This  dusk  recess. 

Soft-footed  Silence,  royal  nun  ! 

In  this  thy  humid,  emerald  cell 

For  ever  dwell ! 

These  flowers  supernal  ever  shine, 
Pure-flamed,  before  thy  virgin  shrine  ! 
Here,  one  by  one, 

Tell  o'er  thy  glistering,  roral  beads,  — 

A  rosary  strung  on  tangled  weeds 

And  blades  and  stems  that  intertwist. 
The  breath  of  Lilies  be  thy  prayers  ! 
Sweet-odored,  wafted  unawares 
Up  through  the  morning's  lucent  airs 

And  evening's  pallid  mist. 
The  glittering  stars  shall  o'er  thee  pass, 
Deep-pillowed  in  the  heavy  grass  ; 

These  broad,  smooth  lily-leaves  shall  be 

A  glossy  coverlet  for  thee  : 

Thy  prayers  and  penance  done, 
O  royal  nun ! 

By  day  or  night, 

In  dark  or  light, 
Thy  fragrant  shrine  shall  be  the  same  ; 

These  slender  tapers  lambent  still, 

Nor  blazing  sun,  nor  mildew  chill, 
Shall  quench  their  alabaster  flame. 


HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL.  159 

A  gleam,  as  of  a  crystal  wand  ! 

And  Day  peers  in  with  curious  face  ; 
The  jealous  sunshine,  stealing  round, 

Doth  warily  chase 

The  cool,  dank  shadows  on  the  ground. 
The  cloister-walls  no  longer  stand  : 

A  garish  glory  fills  the  space, 
And  lights  the  lush  grass,  loose  and  long ; 
While,  startled  by  the  wild-bird's  song, 

Soft-footed  Silence  flees  apace  ; 
But  still  serene  the  Lilies  shine, 
Pure-flamed,  before  her  ruined  shrine  ! 


THE   LAST  APPEAL. 

THE  room  is  swept  and  garnished  for  thy  sake  ; 

The  table  spread  with  love's  most  liberal  cheer ; 
The  fire  is  blazing  brightly  on  the  hearth  ; 

Faith  lingers  yet  to  give  thee  welcome  here. 
When  wilt  thou  come  ? 

Daily  I  weave  the  airy  web  of  hope, 

Frail  as  the  spider's  wrought  with  beads  of  dew,- 
That,  like  Penelope's,  each  night  undone, 
Each  morn  in  patience  I  begin  anew. 
When  wilt  thou  come  ? 

Not  yet?     To-morrow  Faith  will  take  her  flight, 
The  fire  die  out,  the  banquet  disappear ; 

For  ever  will  these  fingers  drop  the  web, 
And  only  desolation  wait  thee  here. 
Oh^  come  to-day  I 


160  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


GOOD    NEWS. 

A  BEE  flew  in  at  my  window, 

And  circled  around  my  head  : 
He  came  like  a  herald  of  summer-time, 

And  what  do  you  think  he  said? 

"  As  sure  as  the  roses  shall  blossom,"  — 

These  are  the  words  he  said,  — 
"  As  sure  as  the  gardens  shall  laugh  in  pride, 

And  the  meadows  blush  clover-red  ; 

"  As  sure  as  the  golden  robin 

Shall  build  her  a  swinging  nest, 
And  the  captured  sunbeam  lie  fast-locked 

In  the  marigold's  burning  breast ; 

"  As  sure  as  the  water-lilies 

Shall  float  like  a  fairy-fleet ; 
As  sure  as  the  torrent  shall  leap  the  rocks, 

With  foamy,  fantastic  feet ; 

"As  sure  as  the  bobolink's  carol, 

And  the  plaint  of  the  whippoorwill, 

Shall  gladden  the  morning,  and  sadden  the  night, 
And,  the  crickets  pipe  loud  and  shrill : 

"  So  sure,  to  the  heart  of  the  maiden 
Who  hath  loved  and  sorrowed  long, 

Glad  tidings  shall  bring  the  summer  of  joy 
With  bursting  of  blossom  and  song." 


HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL.  161 

A  seer  as  well  as  a  herald  ! 

For,  while  I  sat  weeping  to-day, 
The  tenderest,  cheeriest  letter  came 

From  Lionel  far  away. 

Good  news  !  O  little  bee-prophet ! 

Your  words  I  will  never  forget : 
It  may  be  foolish,  —  that  dear,  old  sign,  — 

But  Lionel's  true  to  me  yet ! 


WOMAN. 

1862. 

As  though  no  shade  of  human  wrong  fell  darkly  on 

their  beauty, 
And  all  men  walked  in  brotherhood  the  shining  ways 

of  duty, 
The  blessed  summer  days  glide  by  in  calm  and  sweet 

succession  ; 
God  writes  on  Nature's  palace-walls  no  curse  against 

oppression. 

The  strong  man  arms  him  for  the  fight ;  he  hears  the 

bugle  calling ; 
And,  while  between  the  patriot  shouts  her  tears  have 

time  for  falling, 
Pale  woman  plies  the  threaded  steel,  nor  shapes  her 

lips  to  singing, 
But  still,  with  every  stitch  she  draws,  the  pearls  of 

prayer  is  stringing. 

11 


162  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

She  thinks  of  those  whose  wounds  are  fresh  ;  of  those 
in  death-sleep  lying, 

Whose  brows  of  youth  and  manhood  won  their  bright 
est  crowns  in  dying ; 

She  thinks  of  others  brave  and  true,  hid  in  the  smoke 
of  battle, 

Where  bayonets  gleam,  and  cannon  roar,  and  bullets 
hiss  and  rattle. 

She  shudders  while  the  words  of  fate  along  the  wires 

are  chasing, 
Or,  trembling,  waits  the  hurried  line  some  comrade 

may  be  tracing ; 
Her  head  grows  faint ;  she  lifts  her  hands  in  anguished 

imploration : 
"  God  save  my  Soldier !  "  first  she  prays ;   and  then, 

"  God  save  the  Nation  !  " 

And  when  she  moans,  "  The  very  thought  of  loss  doth 

overcome  me  ! " 
Crying,  "  If  it  be  possible,  oh,  let  this  cup  pass  from 

me!" 
God  chides  her  not,  .if,  choked  with  sobs,  she  adds  to 

her  petition 
But  brokenly  Christ's  after-words   of  meekness   and 

submission. 

He  saw  her  pale  with  victory  in  the  dark  hour  of  trial, 
When  Self  lay  slain,  and  sorrowing  Love  was  fettered 

with  denial ; 
And  the  Divine  One,  who  alone  can  clearly  read  the 

human, 
Traces  the  Hero's  autograph  through  tear-blots  of  the 

Woman. 


HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL.  163 


TRUST. 

To  Him  who  hears,  I  whisper  all ; 

And,  softlier  than  the  dews  of  heaven, 
The  tears  of  Christ's  compassion  fall : 
I  know  I  am  forgiven  ! 

Wrapt  in  the  peace  that  follows  prayer, 

I  fold  my  hands  in  perfect  trust, 
Forgetful  of  the  cross  I  bear 

Through  noonday  heat  and  dust. 

No  more  life's  mysteries  vex  my  thought ; 

No  cruel  doubts  disturb  my  breast ; 
My  heavy-laden  spirit  sought 

And  found  the  promised  rest. 


ALL'S     WELL. 

THE  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep, 
My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  thine  : 
Father  !  forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine. 

With  loving-kindness  curtain  thou  my  bed, 

And  cool  in  rest  my  burning  pilgrim  feet ; 
Thy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head ! 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet. 

At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord,  and  thee, 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith  can  shake : 
All's  well,  whichever  side  the  grave  for  me 
The  morning  light  may  break  ! 


164  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


MY     WISH. 

THE  wish  I  wished  was  dream-fulfilled  ; 

And,  when  I  woke,  I  could  not  bear 
To  find  the  fantasy  of  sleep 

Had  vanished  in  the  morning  air. 

I  rose,  and  slew  it  with  a  vow : 

"  Vain  wish,  I'll  cherish  thee  no  more  !  " 
I  flung  it  in  Oblivion's  stream, 

And  saw  it  drifting  from  the  shore. 

Still  the  dark  waves  that  rolled  away 
Tossed  back  its.  plaintive  moan  to  me, 

As  up  from  Hebrus  rose  the  wail,  — 
"  Eurydice  !  Eurydice  !  " 


THE      SINGER. 

SHE  sits,  and  sings,  in  the  room  below, 
A  tender  ballad  of  love  and  woe, 
Wedded  to  music  plaintive  and  slow. 

And  who  would  dream  that  her  heart  is  gay, 
While  she  singeth  so  sad  a  lay,  — 
Seeming  to  pour  her  soul  away  ? 

Why  not  ?     She  doeth  her  heart  no  wrong  : 
Lips  joy-laden  the  whole  day  long 
Well  can  afford  to  sorrow  in  song ! 

So  keep  her,  Heaven  !  nor  let  her  know 
Other  sighings  than  those  that  flow, 
Rhythmic,  through  ballads  of  love  and  woe. 


'    HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL.  165 


THE     GUEST. 

"  Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door,  and  knock :  if  any  man  hear  my  voice,  and 
open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to  him,  and  will  sup  with  him,  and  he  with  me."  — 
REV.  iii.  20. 

SPEECHLESS  Sorrow  sat  with  me  ; 
I  was  sighing  wearily  : 
Lamp  and  fire  were  out,  the  rain 
Wildly  beat  the  window-pane. 
In  the  dark  we  heard  a  knock  ; 
And  a  hand  was  on  the  lock  ; 
One  in  waiting  spake  to  me, 

Saying  sweetly, 
"  I  am  come  to  sup  'with  thee  I " 

All  my  room  was  dark  and  damp : 

"  Sorrow  !  "  said  I,  "  trim  the  lamp  ; 

Light  the  fire,  and  cheer  thy  face  ; 

Set  the  guest-chair  in  its  place." 

And  again  I  heard  the  knock  ; 

In  the  dark  I  found  the  lock  : 

"  Enter  !  I  have  turned  the  key  !  — 

Enter,  Stranger ! 
Who  art  come  to  sup  with  me." 

Opening  wide  the  door,  he  came, 
But  I  could  not  speak  his  name  ; 
In  the  guest-chair  took  his  place, 
But  I  could  not  see  his  face. 
When  my  cheerful  fire  was  beaming, 
When  my  little  lamp  was  gleaming, 
And  the  feast  was  spread  for  three, 

Lo  !  my  MASTER 
Was  the  Guest  that  supped  with  me  ! 


166  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   OLD   YEAR   OF  THE   NATION. 
1863. 

CLOSED  is  the  book  whose  crimsoned-lettered  pages 
Are  blurred  and  blotted  by  a  Nation's  grief; 

Sealed  up  with  all  the  ponderous  tomes  of  ages 
By  Him  who  turned  for  us  its  darkest  leaf. 

Not  ours  that  volume  to  revise,  erasing 

The  lines  that  tell  what  deeds  of  shame  were  done  ; 
Nor  fold  the  page  down  where,  with  victory  blazing, 

Stands  the  proud  record  of  the  fields  we  won. 

Many  the  chapters  dark  with  fear  and  failing, 
Or  bright  with  hope  of  conquests  yet  to  be  ; 

There  wrote  we  how  the  land  was  rent  with  wailing, 
Blent  with  the  exultant  sounds  of  jubilee. 

The  lists  we  lingered  o'er  with  reverent  sorrow, 
Filled  full  as  heaven  of  stars  with  hero-names, 

A  deathless  light  from  Freedom's  triumphs  borrow, 
Kindling  their  laurel-wreaths  to  martyr  flames. 

Round  the  red  chronicles,  on  every  border, 

Illuminations  done  by  Mercy's  hand 
Show  fair,  amid  fierce  battling  and  disorder, 

Her  white  tents  gleaming  up  and  down  the  land. 

The  book  is  closed,  and  in  His  holy  keeping 
Who,  smiting,  heals  a  Nation  free  and  brave  ; 

Who  careth  for  the  widow  lowly  weeping, 
Rebukes  the  traitor,  and  redeems  the  slave. 


HARRIET  McEWEN  EIMBALL.  167 

Despite  its  glooms,  the  grand  heroic  story 
We  need  not  blush  to  ponder  o'er  again : 

For  Freedom  on  the  titlepage  wrote  "  Glory  ;  " 
And  on  the  last,  with  firmer  pen,  "  Amen  !  " 


JAMES  KENNARD,    JUN. 

BORN  1815 ;  DIED  1847. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS. 

N  at  the  open  window  shine 

The  far-off  solemn  stars  of  heaven  : 
With  sleepless  eyelids,  I  recline 
Upon  my  couch,  to  musing  given. 

A  holy  silence  fills  the  air ; 

In  sleep  repose  earth's  sons  and  daughters  ; 
One  voice  alone  is  heard  afar,  — 

The  rushing  "  sound  of  many  waters." 

Piscataqua  !  I  know  full  well 

Thine  old  familiar  tone,  dear  river  ! 

To  thee,  as  by  a  mighty  spell, 

Mine  inmost  heart  is  bound  for  ever. 

In  boyhood,  while  life's  moaning  dew 
Still  moistened  hope's  delusive  blossom  ; 

In  sail-boat,  or  in  light  canoe, 
I  loved  to  sport  upon  thy  bosom. 

And  when  the  summer  sun  sank  down 
At  eve  among  his  gorgeous  pillows, 

Far  from  the  hot  and  dusty  town, 
I've  bathed  amid  thy  cooling  billows. 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  169 

Full  many  a  river  may,  I  fear, 

In  point  of  length,  be  ranked  before  thee  ; 
But  thou  art  broad  and  deep  and  clear, 

And  blue  as  are  the  heavens  o'er  thee. 

Of  Mississippi  they  may  speak 

Who  find  to  explore  him  time  and  season  ; 
But  I  have  pierced  thine  every  creek, 

And  love  thee  for  that  very  reason. 

No  mighty  common  sewer  art  thou, 

To  do  the  drainage  of  the  nation  ; 
But  thy  pure  waters  ebb  and  flow 

With  ocean's  every  heart-pulsation. 

Oft  sound  the  echoes  on  thy  side 

With  music,  song,  and  laughter  hearty, 
As  o'er  thy  breast,  at  eventide, 

Floats  the  returning  water-party. 

* 
And  oft,  as  now,  when  summer  night 

The  harsher  din  of  daylight  hushes, 
I  listen  to  thy  voice  of  might, 

As  seaward  thy  strong  current  rushes. 

Anon,  above  thy  solemn  bass, 

A  sound  like  Fate's  dread  step  approaches, 
As  o'er  thy  bridge,  at  hurrying  pace, 

Come  tramping  steeds  and  rumbling  coaches. 

That  midnight  train  hath  come  and  gone, 
From  silence  sprung,  in  silence  ended  ; 

But  further,  nought  to  me  is  known, 

Or  whence  it  came,  or  whither  tended.    4 


170  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

From  voiceless  gloom  thus  suddenly 
Emerges  man,  —  a  solemn  marvel ! 

From  mystery  to  mystery, 
Thus  o'er  the  bridge  of  Life  we  travel. 

Oh,  what  a  bitter  mockery 

Were  this  brief  span  to  mortals  given, 
Had  we,  O  God  !  no  faith  in  thee, 

No  staff  on  earth,  no  hope  of  heaven ! 

Oh,  no  !  there  lies  beyond  the  tomb 
No  "  silent  land,"  awaiting  mortals  : 

A  land  of  melody  and  bloom 

Spreads  out  behind  death's  gloomy  portals. 

Then  bravely  bide  the  doom  that  waits  ; 

Bear  all  of  earth  for  all  of  heaven  ; 
Step  like  a  conqueror  through  those  gates,  — 

Not  like  a  captive  chained  and  driven. 

O  river  !  rushing  to  the  sea 

With  eager  and  impetuous  motion, 

Soon  thy  pent  waters  shall  be  free 

To  roam  the  deep  and  boundless  ocean. 

Then,  while  thou  murmurest  in  mine  ear, 
Let  me  accept  the  lesson  given  : 

Dost  thou  pant  for  a  wider  sphere? 
So  should  my  spirit  long  for  heaven. 

Though,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
I  thus  discourse  with  thee,  dear  river  ! 

Though  flowing  almost  in  my  sight, 

Loved  stream  !  we  meet  no  more  for  ever  ! 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  171 

For  ever?     When  the  ties  which  chain 
My  soul  to  clay,  kind  Death  shall  sever, 

Free  as  the  wind,  I'll  roam  again 
Along  thy  banks,  delightful  river  ! 


A  SAIL  ON  THE   PISCATAQUA. 

O'ER  the  dear  Piscataqua 

Gayly  is  our  light  boat  dancing ; 
Brightly  on  its  crystal  waves, 

Lo  !  the  morning  sun  is  glancing. 

Portsmouth  Bridge  is  left  behind  ; 

Now  we're  past  the  "  Pulpit "  *  pressing : 
Lift  your  hat,  and  bend  your  head, 

To  the  Parson  for  his  blessing. 

Stationed  on  the  rocky  bank, 

From  his  Pulpit,  as  we  near  him, 
Through  the  pine-trees,  whispers  he 

Solemn  words,  would  we  but  hear  him. 

Thus  sweet  Nature  everywhere 

Truth  reveals  to  all  who  need  it ; 
Thus  on  life's  tumultuous  tide 

Borne  along,  we  lightly  heed  it. 

Far  and  near,  on  either  hand, 

See  the  trees  like  giants  striding 
Past  each  other,  up  and  down, 

With  a  ghostly  motion  gliding. 

*  "  The  Pulpit,"  a  pine-clad  cliff  so  called,  on  the  south 
west  bank  of  the^-iver,  before  which  it  is  customary  to  make 
obeisance  in  passing. 


172  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

From  the  rocky  pass  emerged, 

Sinking  cliffs  and  shelving  beaches, 

Far  receding,  usher  us 

To  the  loveliest  of  reaches. 

Stretching  wide,  a  beauteous  lake 
To  the  raptured  eye  is  given  : 

Far  beyond,  the  blue  hills  melt 
In  the  clearer  blue  of  heaven. 

Rustic  dwellings,  clumps  of  trees, 

Upland  swells,  and  verdant  meadows, 

Lie  around  ;  and  over  all 

Flit  the  summer  lights  and.  shadows. 

O'er  the  river's  broad  expanse 
Here  and  there  a  boat  is  darting, 

Swelling  sails  and  foaming  bows 
Life  unto  the  scene  imparting. 

Humble  market-wherry  there 

Lags  along  with  lazy  oar  : 
Here,  the  lordly  packet-boat 

Dashes  by  with  rushing  roar. 

Comrades,  look  !  the  west-wind  lulls  ; 

Flags  the  sail ;  the  waves  grow  stilly : 
Rouse  old  yEolus  from  his  sleep  ! 

Whistle,  whistle,  whistle  shrilly  ! 

See,  obedient  to  the  call, 

O'er  the  beach  the  breeze  approaching  ! 
Now  our  little  bark  careens, 

Leeward  gunwale  nearly  touching. 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  173 

Luff  a  little  !  ease  the  sheet ! 

On  each  side  the  bright  foam  flashes  : 
In  her  mouth  she  holds  a  bone, 

O'er  her  bow  the  salt  spray  dashes. 

To  and  fro,  long  tack  and  short, 

Rapidly  we  work  up  river  : 
Comrades,  seems  it  not  to  you 

That  we  thus  could  sail  for  ever? 


WHAT    SHALL   I   ASK  IN   PRAYER? 

WHAT  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?     Have  I  not  all 
That  fortune  can  bestow  of  earthly  gifts,  — 
Health,  riches,  friends? 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer? 
That  God  continue  to  pour  out  on  me 
Thus  bountifully  all  earth's  choicest  blessings? 
Shall  I  kneel  down,  and  pray  that  he  will  still 
Preserve  my  health  inviolate,  sustain 
It>all  its  robust  strength  this  wondrous  frame? 
That  he  will  still  pour  wealth  into  my  coffers, 
Nor  leave  a  single  wish  ungratified 
Which  luxury  can  prompt?     Or  shall  I  ask 
That  friends  may  yet  be  true  ;  that  time  may  not 
Estrange  their  hearts  from  me,  nor  death  destroy  ? 
Shall  I  pray  thus?     No  !  let  me  rather  bend 
In  fearful,  trembling  meekness  at  the  shrine  : 
Father  in  heaven  !  oh,  give  me  strength  to  use 
Aright  those  talents  which  in  wisdom  thou 
Committedst  to  my  care  !     I  am  thy  steward  ; 
And,  when  the  final  day  of  reckoning  comes, 
May  I  then  render  in  a  good  account ! 


174  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  pray  not  that  thou  wouldst  continue  all 
These  earthly  blessings  ;  for  thou  knowest  what 
Is  best  for  me.     Should  sickness,  sorrow,  want, 
E'er  come  upon  me,  all  I  ask,  O  God ! 
Is  resignation  to  thy  holy  will. 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?     Misfortune  sweeps 
Resistless  over  all  my  earthly  hopes. 
Storm  after  storm  has  beat  upon  my  head  ; 
Broken  and  scattered  to  the  winds  the  fabric 
Of  all  my  worldly  greatness.     One  by  one 
My  plans  have  failed  ;  and  striving  to  regain 
The  ground  which  I  had  lost,  and  seat  myself 
Again  on  Fortune's  highest  pinnacle, 
I  have  but  overwhelmed  myself  the  more, 
And  made  my  fall  the  greater.     All  is  gone  ! 
Riches  have  fled  ;  and  deep,  corroding  care 
Has  preyed  upon  my  very  life  ;  this  frame, 
Erect  in  health  and  manly  vigor  once, 
Which  scarcely  knew  what  illness  was,  is  bowed 
By  sickness,  —  tottering  and  feeble  now 
The  once  elastic  step.     Pale  is  the  cheek 
Which  once  did  wear  the  ruddy  glow  of  health, 
And  dim  the  eye  which  shone  with  joy  and  hope. 
One  comfort  only  yet  remains  to  me,  — 
A  gentle  friend,  true  as  in  former  days, 
More  kind  and  more  affectionate  than  ever. 
She  watches  by  my  bed,  and  soothes  my  pain, 
And  droops  not,  though  my  spirit  sinks  within  me. 
Adversity's  thine  element,  O  woman  !  — 
What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?     Shall  I  send  up 
To  heaven's  gate  complaining  notes  of  woe, 
And  supplicate  Jehovah  to  give  back 
The  riches  and  the  health,  of  former  days  ? 


JAMES  KENNAED,  JUN.  175 

Doth  not  the  Lord  know  what  is  best  for  me  ? 
Father,  above  !  I  bow  beneath  the  rod : 
Amid  the  desolation  of  my  hopes, 
I  ask  but  resignation  to  thy  will. 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer  ?     I  have  no  friend  ! 
Misfortune  robbed  me  of  my  wealth  ;  and  then 
I  saw,  alas  !  the  ties  which  bound  my  friends 
To  me  were  golden  strings  ;  they  snapped  in  twain ; 
My  riches  fled  ;  &o& friendship  was  no  more  ! 
Death  snatched  away  my  last,  true,  only  friend. 
She  died  !  and  I  am  left  alone  to  drag 
In  misery  the  burden  of  my  life  along. 
Grim  famine  stares ;  and  sickness  eats  into 
My  very  vitals,  nor  permits  repose. 

Poor,  friendless,  sick,  —  I  raise  my  thoughts  to  heaven. 

• 

What  shall  I  ask  in  prayer?     Shall  I  besiege 

God's  throne  with  lamentations?     Shall  I  pray 

That  he  restore  to  me  health,  riches,  friends? 

Then  would  my  sorrows  have  been  all  in  vain. 

Health  makes  vis  thoughtless  that  a  time  will  come 

When  "  dust  returns  to  dust ; "  and  riches  are 

Too  prone  to  keep  our  thoughts  from  higher  things ; 

And  friends  do  often  fill  the  heart  so  wholly, 

That  not  one  thought  of  God  can  gain  admittance. 

"  'Tis  good  for  me  that  I  have  been  afflicted." 

I  thank  thee,  God !  and,  should  there  be  in  store 

Yet  further  trials,  strengthen  me,  I  pray, 

And  give  me  spiritual  health,  and  let 

My  riches  be  laid  up  in  heaven  above  ! 

My  everlasting  Friend,  thou  God  of  mercy ! 

In  earthly  troubles,  Lord  !  I  only  ask 

For  resignation  to  thy  holy 


176  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   BALLAD   OF  JACK   RINGBOLT.* 

JACK  RINGBOLT  lay  at  the  Seaman's  Home  ; 

And  sorely  afraid  was  he, 
Lest  he  should  end  upon  the  land 

A  life  spent  on  the  sea. 

He  was  born  upon  the  ocean  ; 

And,  with  her  dying  groan, 
His  mother  gave  him  being, 

Then  left  him  all  alone,  — 

Alone  upon  the  desert  sea, 

With  not  a  female  hand 
To  nourish  him  and  cherish  him, 

Like  infants  on  the  land ! 

The  storm-king  held  a  festival 

Upon  the  deep  that  night : 
His  voice  was  thundering  overhead, 

His  eye  was  flashing  bright. 

The  billows  tossed  their  caps  aloft, 

And  shouted  in  their  glee  ; 
But,  oh  !  it  was  for  mortal  men 

An  awful  night  to  see  ! 

Among  the  shrouds  and  spars  aloft, 

A  host  of  fiends  were  shrieking ; 
And  the  pump-brake's  dismal  clank  on  deck 

Told  that  the  ship  was  leaking. 

Published  in  the  "Knickerbocker"  for  December,  1846. 


JAMES  KENNAED,  JUN.  177 

The  ship  was  lying  to  the  wind, 

Her  helm  was  lashed  a-lee  ; 
And,  at  every  mighty  roller, 

She  was  boarded  by  a  sea. 

The  doom-struck  vessel  trembled, 

As  the  waves  swept  o'er  her  deck : 
She  rolled  among  the  billows 

An  unmanageable  wreck. 

To*  their  boats  they  took  for  safety,  — 

The  captain  and  his  men  ; 
And  the  helpless  new-born  infant 

Was  not  forgotten  then. 

A  rough,  hard-featured  countenance 

The  storm-tossed  captain  wore  ; 
But  his  heart  for  tender  innocence 

With  love  was  flowing  o'er. 

"  He  shall  not  perish  here  alone, 

Upon  the  ocean  wild  ; 
But  only  God  can  nourish  him, 

The  motherless  young  child  !  " 

But  all  in  vain  his  kindness, 

Had  they  not,  at  break  of  day,  — 
Glad  sight !  —  beheld  before  them 

A  vessel  on  her  way. 

They  were  rescued ;  and  on  board  of  her, 

As  the  passengers  drew  round, 
In  woman's  arms  the  orphan  boy 

The  needed  succor  found. 
12 


178  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

He  lived  ;  but  to  his  inmost  soul 
His  birth-night  gave  its  tone  : 

The  spirits  of  the  stormy  deep 
Had  marked  him  for  their  own. 

He  lived  and  grew  to  manhood 

Amid  the  ocean's  roar  : 
His  heaven  was  on  the  surging  sea, 

His  hell  was  on  the  shore  ! 

He  joyed  amid  the  tempest, 

When  spars  and  sails  were  riven, 
And  when  the  din  of  battle  drowned 

The  artillery  of  heaven. 

«, 
He  often  breathed  a  homely  prayer, 

That,  when  life's  cruise  was  o'er, 
His  battered  hulk  might  sink  at  sea, 

A  thousand  miles  from  shore. 

And  now,  to  lie  up,  high  and  dry, 

A  wreck  upon  the  sand  ! 
To  leave  his  weary  bones  at  last 

Upon  the  hated  land  ! 

The  thought  was  worse  than  death  to  him  ; 

It  shook  his  noble  soul : 
Strange  sight !  adown  his  hollow  cheek 

A  tear  was  seen  to  roll. 

"  Could  I  but  float  my  bark  once  more  ! 

'Twould  be  a  joy  to  me, 
Amid  the  howling  tempest, 

To  sink  into  the  sea  !  " 


JAMES  KENNAED,  JUN.  179 

Then,  turning  to  the  window, 

He  gazed  into  the  sky : 
The  scud  was  flying  overhead, 

The  gale  was  piping  high. 

And  in  the  fitn.il  pauses 

Was  heard  old  Ocean's  roar, 
As  in  vain  his  marshalled  forces 

Rushed  foaming  on  the  shore. 

Look  now  !  his  cheek  is  flushing, 

And  a  light  is  in  his  eye,  — 
"  Throw  up  the  window  !  let  me  hear 

That  voice  before  I  die  ! 

They're  hailing  me,  the  crested  waves, 
A  brave  and  countless  band, 
As  rank  on  rank,  to  rescue  me, 
They  leap  upon  the  land. 

'Tis  all  in  vain,  bold  comrades  ! 
And  yet,  and  yet  so  near ! 
Ye  are  but  one  short  league  away,  — 
Must  I  —  die  —  here  ? 

No  !  the  ship  that  brought  me  hither 
Is  at  the  pier-head  lying  ; 
And,  ere  to-morrow  night,  she'll  be 
Before  a  norther  flying. 

Now,  bless  ye,  brother  sailors  ! 
If  ye  grant  my  wish,"  he  cried  ; 

"  But  curse  ye,  if "     He  spake  no  more, 

Fell  back,  and  gasped,  and  died. 


180  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


PART    SECOND. 

THEY  sewed  him  in  his  hammock, 
With  a  forty-two-pound  shot 

Beneath  his  feet,  to  sink  him 
Into  some  ocean-grot. 

Adown  the  swift  Piscataqua 
They  rowed  with  muffled  oar, 

And  out  upon  the  ocean, 
A  league  away  from  shore. 

'Twas  at  the  hour  of  twilight, 
On  a  chill  November  day, 

When,  on  their  gloomy  errand, 
They  held  their  dreary  way. 

The  burial-service  over, 

He  was  launched  into  the  wave  : 
Now  rest  in  peace,  Jack  Ringbolt ! 

Thou  hast  found  an  ocean-grave. 

Down  went  the  corpse  into  the  sea, 
As  though  it  were  of  lead  ; 

But  it  sank  not  twenty  fathoms, 
Ere  it  touched  the  ocean's  bed. 

Then  up  it  shot,  and  floated 
Half-length  above  the  tide  : 

A  lurid  flame  played  round  the  head, 
The  canvas  opened  wide. 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  181 

No  motion  of  the  livid  lips 

Or  ghastly  face  was  seen  ; 
But  a  hollow  voice  thrilled  through  their  ears, 

"  Quarter  less  nineteen  !  " 

Then  eastward  sped  the  awful  dead, 

While,  o'er  the  darkened  sea, 
Upon  the  billows  rose  and  fell 

The  corpse-light  fitfully. 

They  gazed  in  fearful  wonderment, 

Their  hearts  with  horror  rife  ; 
Then,  panic-stricken,  seized  their  oars, 

And  rowed  as  if  for  life. 

Their  eyes  were  fixed  with  stony  stare 

Upon  the  spectral  light ; 
They  rowed  like  corpses  galvanized, 

So  silent  and  so  white. 

They  darted  by  "  The  Sisters  ;  " 

They  went  rushing  past  "  Whale's  Back  ;  " 
With  tireless  arms  they  forced  the  boat 

Along  her  foamy  track  : 

But  not  a  single  face  was  flushed, 

Not  one  long  breath  they  drew, 
Until  Fort  Constitution 

Hid  the  ocean  from  their  view. 


182  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


PART    THIRD. 

'TwAS  midnight  on  mid-ocean, 

The  winds  forgot  to  blow  ; 
The  clouds  hung  pitchy  black  above, 

The  sea  rolled  black  below  ; 
On  the  quarter-deck  of  the  "  Glendoveer  " 

The  mate  paced  to  and  fro. 

There  was  no  sound  upon  the  deep 
To  wake  the  slumbering  gales, 

But  the  creaking  of  the  swaying  masts, 
And  the  flapping  of  the  sails, 

As  the  vessel  climbed  the  ocean-hills, 
Or  sank  into  the  vales. 

The  mate  looked  over  the  starboard  rail, 

And  saw  a  light  abeam  : 
The  lantern  of  a  ship,  mayhap, 

A  faint  and  flickering  gleam  : 
Was  it  bearing  down  on  the  "  Glendoveer," 

Or  did  the  mate  but  dream  ? 

A  phantom-ship,  on  a  breezeless  night, 

To  sail  ten  knots  an  hour ! 
Now  on  the  beam,  now  quartering, 

Now  close  astern  it  bore  : 
All  silent  as  the  dead  it  moved, 

A  light,  —  and  nothing  more  ! 

No  creaking  block,  no  rumbling  rope, 
Was  heard,  nor  shivering  sail ; 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  183 

But,  luffing  on  the  larboard  beam, 

A  voice  was  heard  to  hail, 
That  made  the  hearts  of  the  Glendoveers 

Within  their  bosoms  quail. 

It  broke  upon  the  still  night-air, 

A  hoarse,  sepulchral  sound,  — 
"What  ship  is  that?"     A  moment, 

And  the  mate  his  breath  has  found : 

The  '  Glendoveer,'  of  Portsmouth, 

From  Cadiz,  homeward  bound  !  " 

A  livid  glare,  a  ghastly  face, 

A  voice,  —  and  all  was  o'er  : 
"Report  Jack  Ringbolt,  sunk  at  sea, 

A  thousand  miles  from  shore  !  " 
Silence  and  darkness  on  the  deep 

Resumed  their  sway  once  more. 


TO . 

How  beautiful,  how  beautiful, 

Thy  clear  cerulean  eye  ! 
I  gaze  upon  it  as  I  gaze 

Upon  the  azure  sky  : 
And  as  unto  my  longing  look, 

At  some  rapt  hour  is  given, 
Far  in  those  bright,  ethereal  depths, 

By  faith,  a  glimpse  of  heaven ; 
So,  as  into  those  orbs  of  blue 

My  ardent  glances  dart, 
Far  in  their  liquid  depths  I  read 

The  heaven  of  thy  heart. 


184  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But  as  the  Peri  mourned  the  fate 
Which  closed  on  her  the  crystal  gate 

Of  Paradise  for  ever, 
Yet,  while  bewailing  her  sad  lot, 
Still  hovered  near  the  sacred  spot 

Which  she  might  enter  never  ; 
So,  while  I  look  upon  thy  face, 
And  in  its  every  feature  trace 
The  guilelessness  and  matchless  grace 

Of  the  pure  heart  within, 
How  ardently  my  soul  aspires 

That  glorious  heart  to  win  ! 
But  soon  in  darkness  hope  expires. 

It  may  not  be  ;  it  may  not  be  ; 
And  yet  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
And  nourish  passion's  fires 
By  gazing  at  those  azure  eyes, 
Which,  like  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
Half-opened,  show  the  heaven  within, 
All-glorious  and  free  from  sin. 

O  lady  !  is  there  not  for  me, 

As  for  the  Peri,  still  a  hope, 
As  she  won  heaven,  that  I  win  thee  ? 

Oh,  tell  me,  lady  !  what  can  ope 
The  portals  of  thy  heart  to  me? 
I'd  roam  the  broad  earth  through  and  through, 

I'd  sail  from  sea  to  sea, 
But  I  would  find  that  potent -charm, 

The  gift  most  worthy  thee, 
That  I  might  make  thee  all  mine  own, 
That  peerless  heart,  mine,  mine  alone  ! 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  185 

WRECK  OF  THE   "  SEGUNTUM." 
A  Ballad. 

The  Spanish  ship  "  Seguntum  "  was  wrecked  on  the  Isles  of  Shoals  in  the  winter 
of  1813,  and  all  hands  on  board  perished. 

FAST  o'er  the  seas,  a  favoring  breeze 

The  Spanish  ship  had  borne  : 
The  sailors  thought  to  reach  their  port 

Ere  rose  another  morn. 

As  sank  the  sun,  the  bark  dashed  on, 

The  green  sea  cleaving  fast : 
Ah  !  little  knew  the  reckless  crew 

That  night  should  be  their  last ! 

They  little  thought  their  destined  port 

Should  be  the  foaming  surge  ; 
That,  long  ere  morn  again  should  dawn, 

The  winds  should  wail  their  dirge  ! 

As  twilight  fades,  and  evening  shades 

Are  deepening  into  night, 
The  sky  grows  black,  and  driving  rack 

Obscures  the  starry  light. 

And  loudly  now  the  storm-winds  blow, 

And  through  the  rigging  roar  : 
They  find,  too  late  to  shun  their  fate, 

They're  on  a  leeward  shore. 

'Mid  snow  and  hail  they  shorten  sail ; 

The  bark  bows  'neath  the  blast ; 
And,  as  the  billows  rise  and  break, 

She's  borne  to  leeward  fast. 


186  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH, 

The  straining  ship  drives  through  the  seas, 

Close  lying  to  the  wind  ; 
The  spray,  on  all  where  it  doth  fall, 

Becomes  an  icy  rind. 

It  strikes  upon  the  shrinking  face 

As  sharp  as  needles'  prick  ; 
And  ever,  as  the  ship  dofji  pitch, 

The  shower  comes  fast  and  thick. 

And  with  it  comes  the  driving  snow, 

Borne  on  the  bitter  blast : 
The  helmsman  scarce  the  compass  sees, 

It  flies  so  keen  and  fast. 

• 

A  sound  of  fear  strikes  on  the  ear : 

It  is  the  awful  roar 
Of  dashing  breakers,  dead  ahead, 

Upon  the  rocky  shore  ! 

"  Wear  ship  !  hard  up,  hard  up  your  helm  !  " 

Aloud  the  captain  cries  : 
Slowly  her  head  pays  orF,  and  now 

Before  the  wind  she  flies. 

Now  on  the  other  tack,  close  braced, 
She  holds  her  foaming  course  : 

Short  respite  then  !  too  soon  again 
Are  heard  the  breakers  hoarse  ! 

Ahead,  to  windward  and  to  lee, 

The  foaming  surges  roar : 
"  O  Holy  Virgin  !  save  us  now, 

And  we  will  sin  no  more  ! 


JAMES  KENNAED,  JUN.  187 

We  vow  to  lead  a  holy  life  :  " 
Too  late  !  alas,  too  late  ! 
Their  vows  and  plaints  to  imaged  saints 
Cannot  avert  their  fate. 

» 

They  strike  a  rock  ;  O  God  !  the  shock  ! 

They  vanish  in  that  surge  ! 
Through  mast  and  shroud  the  tempest  loud 

Howls  forth  a  dismal  dirge. 

There  lives  not  one  to  greet  the  sun, 

Or  tell  the  tale  at  home  : 
A  winding-sheet  for  sailors  meet, 

The  waves  around  them  foam. 

The  storm  is  o'er :  the  rocky  shore 

Lies  strewn  with  many  a  corse, 
Disfigured  by  the  angry  surf 

That  still  is  murmuring  hoarse. 

And  thus  the  Spanish  crew  were  found,* 

Cast  on  those  barren  isles  : 
There,  in  unconsecrated  ground, 

They  rest  them  from  their  toils. 

No  mourners  stood  around  their  graves, 

No  friends  above  them  wept ; 
A  hasty  prayer  was  uttered  there,  — 

Unknown,  unknelled,  they  slept. 

*  Thirteen  in  number.  Their  graves  are  still  to  be  seen  on 
one  of  the  Isles  of  Shoals.  These  islands  lie  off  the  harbor  of 
Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  nine  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  Piscata- 
qua. 


188  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


SAD     HOURS. 

THE  cold  winds  of  autumn  are  sighing  around, 

And  the  leaves  sere  and  yellow  lie  strown  o'er  the 
ground ; 

By  the  eddying  blasts  they  are  whirled  through  the 
air, 

And  the  tall  trees  that  bore  them  are  naked  and  bare. 

Ah  !  thus  has  a  frost  nipped  the  plans  which  I  cher 
ished, 

And  desolate  left  me  :  my  hopes  have  all  perished  ! 

Disappointment  has  tracked  me,  misfortune  assailed ; 

In  vain  I  resisted,  —  the  storm  has  prevailed  : 

The  present  is  misery,  the  future  a  void  ; 

Oh,  the  foliage  of  hope  is  for  ever  destroyed  ! 


For  ever?     Oh,  no  !  to  the  heart,  tree,  and  plain, 

A  spring  is  approaching ;  in  verdure  again 

The  tall  oak  shall  be  clad,  and  where  chill  winter 
hovered, 

With  a  carpet  of  green  the  brown  heath  shall  be  cov 
ered. 

Bethink  thee,  sad  youth  !  were  thy  hopes  placed 
aright  ? 

Didst  thou  rest  on  thy  God?  Didst  thou  pray,  day 
and  night, 

For  the  strength  which  should  bear  thee  in  victory 
through  ? 

In  sickness  and  sorrow  he  still  will  be  true. 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  189 

Though  friends  should  forsake,  though  misfortune  as 
sail  thee, 

Trust  humbly  in  God,  —  he  never  will  fail  thee  : 
In  the  hour  of  thy  trial,  look  upward  to  heaven, 
Ask  strength  of  thy  Father,  and  strength  shall  be  given. 


DEATH   ON   THE   PALE   HORSE. 
A  Painting  by  Dunlap. 

NOT  thus,  not  thus,  should  Death  be  shown, 

With  fearful  form  and  countenance, 
With  writhing  serpent  following  on, 

With  hope-annihilating  glance, 
With  all  that's  withering  to  the  heart, 

And  all  that's  hideous  to  the  eye, 
With  hands  from  which  pale  lightnings  dart, 

With  all  that  tends  to  terrify. 

Not  thus  should  Death,  our  kindest  friend, 

To  mortal  view  be  bodied  forth,  — 
Death,  in  whose  bosom  is  an  end 

For  all  the  sin  and  woe  of  earth  : 
Oh  !  'tis  a  heathen  custom,  this, 

From  which  all  Christians  should  be  weaned 
The  friend  who  ushers  us  to  bliss 

Should  not  be  painted  as  a  fiend. 

Around  God's  throne  in  heaven  above, 
Death  was  the  mildest  of  the  throng, 

His  heart  most  filled  with  holy  love, 
In  warmth  and  charity  most  strong : 


190  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

For  angels  differ  in  their  frame 
Like  men,  and  not  to  all  are  given 

A  mind  and  heart  in  each  the  same  ; 
Thus  all  are  not  alike  in  heaven. 


When  God  ordained  man's  destiny, 

To  Death  the  blessed  task  was  given 
Of  setting  careworn  spirits  free,  — 

Of  ushering  souls  from  earth  to  heaven  : 
As  downward  on  this  blest  employ 

He  darted  on  his  pinions  bright, 
How  thrilled  his  heart  with  holy  joy  ! 

How  beamed  his  countenance  with  light ! 


And  ever  since  that  blessed  hour 

Has  Death  watched  o'er  each  child  of  clay, 
As  bends  above  her  darling  flower 

A  tender  girl,  from  day  to  day  ; 
Till,  when  the  long-sought  bud  appears, 

Expanding  to  a  lovely  blossom, 
She  plucks  it  from  its  stem,  and  wears 

The  cherished  flower  upon  her  bosom. 


Thus  tenderly  Death  watches  over 

Each  struggling  spirit  shrined  in  clay, 
Till,  at  the  mandate  of  Jehovah, 

He  bears  the  ripened  soul  away. 
The  bond,  the  free,  the  high,  the  low, 

Alike  are  objects  of  his  love  ; 
And,  though  he  severs  hearts  below, 

He  joins  them  evermore  above. 


JAMES  KENNARD,  JUN.  191 

I  have  a  picture  in  my  eye,  — 

A  bowed-down  captive  drags  his  chain 
Along  his  dungeon  mournfully, 

And  writhes  and  groans  in  bitter  pain  : 
But  suddenly  the  walls  are  burst, 

There  rushes  in  unwonted  light ; 
Dazzled  and  blind,  he  shrinks,  at  first, 

From  his  deliverer,  with  affright ; 


And  not  until  his  prison-wall 

Is  left,  although  unwillingly  ; 
Not  till  his  galling  fetters  fall, 

And  leave  the  long-bound  prisoner  free  ; 
And  not  until  his  quailing  eye 

Is  strengthened,  —  can  his  gaze  embrace 
The  look  of  calm  benignity 

That  beams  from  his  deliverer's  face. 


And  this  is  Death  !     Oh  !  paint  him  not 

As  yonder  canvas  shows  him  forth,  — 
Death,  who  removes  us  from  a  spot 

So  full  of  sin  and  woe  as  earth  ! 
Oh  !  'tis  a  heathen  custom,  this, 

From  which  all  Christians  should  be  weaned  : 
The  friend  who  ushers  us  to  bliss 

Should  not  be  painted  as  a  fiend. 


ALBERT    LAIGH7ON. 


THE  MISSING   SHIPS. 

THOU  ever  restless  sea  ! 

"  God's  half-uttered  mystery," 

Where  all  the  ships  that  sailed  so  gallantly 

away? 

Tell  us,  will  they  never  more 
Furl  their  wings,  and  come  to  shore  ? 
Eyes  still  watch  and  fond  hearts  wait :  precious  freight 
had  they. 

Precious  freight !  ay,  wealth  untold, 

More  than  merchandise  or  gold, 
Did  the  stately  vessels  bear  o'er  the  heaving  main  : 

Human  souls  are  dearer  far 

Than  all  earthly  treasures  are  ; 
And  for  them  we  weep  and  pray :  must  it  be  in  vain  ? 

In  the  silence  of  the  night 

Did  they,  with  a  wild  affright, 
Wake  to  hear  the  cry  of  FIRE  !  echo  to  the  stars ; 

While  the  cruel,  snake-like  flame, 

Creeping,  coiling,  hissing,  came 

O'er  the  deck,  and  up  the  mast,  and  out  along  the 
spars  ? 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON.  193 

As  the  doomed  ship  swayed  and  tossed 

Like  a  mighty  holocaust, 
Did  they  with  despairing  cries  leap  into  the  waves? 

Or  with  folded  hands,  and  eyes 

Lifted  to  the  peaceful  skies, 

Calmly  go  with  prayerful   hearts   to   their*  nameless 
graves  ? 

Did  the  black  wings  of  the  blast 

Poise  and  hover  o'er  the  mast, 

Till  at  last  in   wrath   they   swept   o'er   the   crowded 
deck? 

Leaving  not  a  soul  to  tell 

How  the  long  and  awful  swell 
Of  the  ocean's  troubled  breast  bore  a  dismal  wreck  ; 

How  amid  the  thunder's  crash, 

And  the  lightning's  lurid  flash 

(Autograph   the   Storm-king  writes   on   his    scroll    of 
clouds), 

High  above  the  deafening  strife 

Piteous  cries  were  heard  for  life, 
Fear-struck  human  beings  seen  clinging  to  the  shrouds  ! 

Or  with  shattered  hulk  and  sail, 

Riding  out  the  stormy  gale, 
Did  the  brave  ship  slowly  sink  deeper  day  and  night? 

Drifting,  drifting  wearily 

O'er  the  wide  and  trackless  sea, 
Loved  ones  starving,  dying  there,  with  no  sail  in  sight. 

Or  when  winds  and  waves  were  hushed, 
While  each  cheek  with  joy  was  flushed, 
As  they  glided  gently  on,  hope  in  every  breast, 

13 


194  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

With  a  sudden  leap  and  shock, 
Did  they  strike  some  hidden  rock, 
And  go  down,  for  ever  down,  to  their  dreamless  rest? 

Did  the  strange  and  speclral  fleet 

Of  the  icebergs  round  them  meet, 
Pressing  closer  till  they  sank  crashing  to  the  deep  ? 

Do  these  crystal  mountains  loom, 

Monuments  of  that  vast  tomb, 
In  the  ocean's  quiet  depths,  where  so  many  sleep? 

O  thou  ever-surging  sea  ! 
Vainly  do  we  question  thee  : 
Thy  blue  waves  no  answer  bring  as  they  kiss   the 

strand ; 

But  we  know  each  coral  grave, 
Far  beneath  the  rolling  wave, 

Shall  at  last  give  up  its  dead,  touched  by  God's  right 
hand. 


THE   SUMMER   SHOWER. 

A  WHITE  haze  glimmered  on  the  hills, 
The  vales  were  parched  and  dry, 

And  glaringly  the  burning  sun 
Coursed  in  the  summer  sky. 

The  cattle  in  the  distant  woods 
Sought  shelter  from  its  beams, 

Or,  motionless  and  patient  stood, 
Knee-deep,  amid  the  streams. 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON.  195 

The  house-dog  lay  with  panting  breath 

Close  where  the  elm-trees  grew  ; 
The  blue-bird  and  the  oriole 

To  shady  coverts  flew. 

Day  after  day  the  thirsty  earth 

Looked  up  to  heaven  for  rain  ; 
The  gardens  held  their  flower-cups, 

The  fields  their  lips  of  grain. 

With  doubting  hearts,  men,  murmuring,  said, 

"  Our  toils  have  been  in  vain  : 
We  sowed  in  spring,  but  shall  not  reap 

When  autumn  comes  again." 

But  while  they  spoke,  within  the  west, 

At  sunset's  glowing  hour, 
God's  voice  proclaimed  in  thunder-tones 

The  coming  of  the  shower  ! 

The  deepening  shadows  slowly  crept 

O'er  mountain  and  o'er  plain, 
Until  in  cool  and  copious  floods 

Came  down  the  blessed  rain. 

All  Nature  smiled  ;  and  when  at  last 

The  cloudy  wings  were  furled, 
The  evening  star  shone  regally 

Above  a  thankful  world. 

O  love  of  Heaven  !     O  fear  of  man  ! 

O  faith  so  cold  and  dim  ! 
When  shall  we  own  the  ways  of  God, 

And  learn  to  trust  in  him? 


196  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


TO   MY  SOUL. 

GUEST  from  a  holier  world, 
Oh,  tell  me  where  the  peaceful  valleys  lie  : 
Dove  in  the  ark  of  life,  when  thou  shalt  fly, 

Where  will  thy  wings  be  furled? 

Where  is  thy  native  nest? 

Where  the  green  pastures  that  the  blessed  roam  ? 
Impatient  dweller  in  thy  clay-built  home, 

Where  is  thy  heavenly  rest? 

On  some  immortal  shore, 

Some  realm  away  from  earth  and  time,  I  know,  - 
A  land  of  bloom,  where  living  waters  flow, 

And  grief  comes  nevermore. 

Faith  turns  my  eyes  above  ; 

Day  fills  with  floods  of  light  the  boundless  skies  ; 
Night  watches  calmly  with  her  starry  eyes 

All  tremulous  with  love. 

And,  as  entranced  I  gaze, 
Sweet  music  floats  to  me  from  distant  lyres : 
I  see  a  temple,  round  whose  golden  spires 

Unearthly  glory  plays  ! 

Beyond  those  azure  deeps 
I  fix  thy  home,  —  a  mansion  kept  for  thee 
Within  the  Father's  house,  whose  noiseless  key 

Kind  Death,  the  warder,  keeps  ! 


ALBERT  LAIOIITON.  197 


IN   THE   WOODS. 

I  WALKED  alone  in  depths  of  Autumn  woods  : 
The  ruthless  winds  had  left  the  maple  bare  ; 

The  fern  was  withered,  and  the  sweetbrier's  breath 
No  longer  gave  its  fragrance  to  the  air. 

The  barberry  strung  its  coral  beads  no  more ; 

The  thistle-clown  on  gauzy  wings  had  flown  ; 
And  myriad  leaves,  on  which  the  Summer  wrote 

Her  blushing  farewells,  at  my  feet  were  strown. 

A  loneliness  pervaded  every  spot,  — 

A  gloom  of  which  my  musing  soul,  partook  : 

All  Nature  mourns,  I  said  ;  November  wild 
Hath  torn  the  fairest  pages  from  her  book. 

But  suddenly  a  wild-bird  overhead 

Poured  forth  a  strain  so  strangely  clear  and  sweet, 
It  seemed  to  bring  me  back  the  skies  of  May, 

And  wake  the  sleeping  violets  at  my  feet. 

Then  long  I  pondered  o'er  the  poet's  words,  — 
"  The  loss  of  beauty  is  not  always  loss," 

Till,  like  the  voice  of  love,  they  soothed  my  pain, 
And  gave  me  strength  to  bear  again  my  cross. 

O  murmuring  heart !  thy  pleasures  may  decay, 

Thy  faith  grow  cold,  thy  golden  dreams  take  wing ; 

Still,  in  the  realm  of  faded  youth  and  joy, 

Heaven  kindly  leaves  some  bird  of  hope  to  sing. 


198  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH, 


FOUND   DEAD. 

A  poor  vagrant  was  found  by  the  police  wandering  in  the  streets  of  Philadel 
phia.  He  said  he  wanted  to  freeze  to  death ;  that  he  had  no  home,  but  was 
afraid  to  kill  himself.  The  parties  left  him  ;  and,  in  the  morning,  the  poor  wretch 
was  found  a  frozen  corpse. 

FOUND  dead  !  dead  and  alone  ! 

There  was  nobody  near,  nobody  near, 
When  the  Outcast  died  on  his  pillow  of  stone,  — 

No  mother,  no  brother,  no  sister  dear, 
Not  a  friendly  voice  to  soothe  or  cheer, 
Not  a  watching  eye  or  a  pitying  tear. 
Oh  !  the  city  slept  when  he  died  alone, 
In  the  roofless  ^street,  on  a  pillow  of  stone. 

Many  a  weary  day  went  by, 

While,  wretched  and  worn,  he  begged  for  bread, 
Tired  of  life,  and  longing  to  lie 

Peacefully  down  with  the  silent  dead  : 
Hunger  and  cold,  and  scorn  and  pain, 
Had  wasted  his  form  and  seared  his  brain, 
Till  at  last,  on  a  bed  of  frozen  ground, 
With  a  pillow  of  stone,  was  the  Outcast  found. 

Found  dead  !  dead  and  alone, 

On  a  pillow  of  stone,  in  the  roofless  street ; 
Nobody  heard  his  last  faint  moan, 

Or  knew  when  his  sad  heart  ceased  to  beat ; 
No  mourner  lingered  with  tears  or  sighs : 
But  the  stars  looked  down  with  pitying  eyes, 
And  the  chill  winds  passed  with  a  wailing  sound 
O'er  the  lonely  spot  where  his  form  was  found. 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON.  199 

Found  dead  !  yet  not  alone  ; 

There  was  somebody  near,  —  somebody  near 
To  claim  the  wanderer  as  his  own, 

And  find  a  home  for  the  homeless  here  ; 
One,  when  every  human  door 
Is  closed  to  his  children,  scorned  and  poor, 
Who  opens  the  heavenly  portal  wide  : 
Ah,  God  was  near  when  the  Outcast  died  ! 


NEW     ENGLAND. 

WHAT  though  they  boast  of  fairer  lands, 
Give  me  New  England's  hallowed  soil,- 

The  fearless  hearts,  the  swarthy  hands 
Stamped  with  the  heraldry  of  toil. 

I  love  her  valleys  broad  and  fair  ; 

The  pathless  wood  ;  the  gleaming  lake  ; 
The  bold  and  rocky  bastions,  where 

The  billows  of  the  ocean  break  ; 

The  grandeur  of  each  mountain  peak 
That  rears  to  heaven  its  granite  form  ; 

The  craggy  cliffs  where  eagles  shriek 
Amid  the  thunder  and  the  storm. 

And  dear  to  me  each  noble  deed 

Wrought  by  the  iron  wills  of  yore,  — 

The  Pilgrim  hands  that  sowed  the  seed 
Of  Freedom  on  her  sterile  shore. 


200  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


JOE. 

ALL  day  long  with  a  vacant  stare, 
Alone  in  the  chilling  Autumn  air, 
With  naked  feet  he  wanders  slow 
Over  the  city,  —  the  idiot  Joe  ! 

I  often  marvel  why  he  was  born,  — 
A  child  of  humanity  thus  forlorn, 
Unloved,  unnoticed  by  all  below  : 
A  cheerless  thing  is  the  life  of  Joe  ! 

Beauty  can  throw  no  spell  o'er  him  ; 
His  inner  vision  is  weak  and  dim  ; 
And  Nature,  in  all  her  varied  show, 
Weareth  no  charm  for  the  eyes  of  Joe. 

Earth  may  wake  at  the  kiss  of  Spring ; 
Flowers  may  blossom,  and  birds  may  sing ; 
With  joy  the  crystal  streams  may  flow : 
They  never  make  glad  the  heart  of  Joe. 

His  vague  and  wandering  thoughts  infold 
No  dreams  of  glory,  no  schemes  for  gold  : 
He  knows  not  the  blight  of  hopes  ;  yet,  oh, 
A  blighted  thing  is  the  life  of  Joe  ! 

Who  would  not  suffer  the  ills  of  life, 
Its  numberless  wrongs,  its  sin  and  strife, 
And  willingly  bear  its  weight  of  woe, 
Rather  than  be  the  idiot  Joe  ? 


ALBERT  LAIGIITON.  201 

I  think  of  him  in  the  silent  night, 
When  every  star  seems  a  beacon  light 
To  guide  us,  wanderers  here  below, 
To  the  better  land,  —  the  home  of  Joe. 

For  He  who  hears  when  the  ravens  call, 
And  watches  even  the  sparrow's  fall,  — 
He,  in  his  measui'eless  love,  I  know, 
Will  kindly  care  for  the  soul  of  Joe. 


EBB  AND   FLOW. 

I  WANDERED  alone  beside  the  stream  ; 

The  tide  was  out,  and  the  sands  were  bare  ; 
The  tremulous  tone  of  the  sea-bird's  scream, 

Like  a  winged  arrow,  pierced  the  air. 

I  roamed  till  the  sun  in  the  west  was  low, 
And  the  robes  of  twilight  trailed  in  the  sea  ; 

The  waves  pulsed  in  with  a  rhythmical  flow, 
And  the  nightingale  sang  a  song  to  me. 

All  day  I  roam  by  the  stream  of  Song ; 

The  tide  is  out,  and  my  life  is  bare  ; 
While  shadows  of  evil  round  me  throng, 

And  drearily  croak  the  birds  of  Care. 

But  at  night  the  waves  roll  back  again, 
And  flow  in  music  over  my  heart, 

Till  the  dusky  phantoms  of  grief  and  pain 
From  the  charmed  shores  of  my  brain  depart. 


202  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


MY   NATIVE   RIVER. 


LIKE  an  azure  vein  from  the  heart  of  the  main, 

Pulsing  with  joy  for  ever, 
By  verdurous  isles,  with  dimpled  smiles, 

Floweth  my  native  river, 


Singing  a  song  as  it  flows  along, 
Hushed  by  the  Ice-king  never  ; 

For  he  strives  in  vain  to  clasp  a  chain 
O'er  thy  fetterless  heart,  brave  river  ! 


Singing  to  me  as  full  and  free 

As  it  sang  to  the  dusky  daughters, 

When  the  light  canoe  like  a  sea-bird  flew 
Over  its  peaceful  waters  ; 


Or  when  by  the  shore  of  Sagamore 
They  joined  in  their  mystic  dances, 

Where  the  lover's  vow  is  whispered  now 
By  the  light  of  maiden  glances. 


Oh,  when  the  dart  shall  strike  my  heart, 
Speeding  from  Death's  full  quiver, 

May  I  close  my  eyes  where  smiling  skies 
Bend  o'er  my  native  river  ! 


ALBERT  LAIOHTON.  203 


THE   MIDNIGHT  VOICE. 

FATHER,  at  this  calm  hour, 
Alone,  in  prayer  I  bend  an  humble  knee  : 
My  soul  in  silence  wings  its  flight  to  thee, 

And  owns  thy  boundless  power. 


Day's  weaiy  toil  is  o'er  ; 

No  worldly  strife  my  heartfelt  worship  mars 
Beneath  the  mysteiy  of  the  silent  stars, 

I  tremble  and  adore. 


Not  when  the  frenzied  storm 
Writhes  'mid  the  darkness,  till  in  wild  despah% 
Bursting  its  thunder-chains,  the  lightning's  glare 

Reveals  its  awful  form, — 


I  wait  not  for  that  hour  ; 

In  flower  and  dew,  in  sunshine  calm  and  free, 
I  hear  a  still  small  voice  that  speaks  of  thee 

With  holier,  deeper  power. 


Above  the  thunder-notes, 
Serene  and  clear,  the  music  of  the  spheres 
For  ever  rolls,  though  not  to  mortal  ears 

The  heavenly  cadence  floats. 


204  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

WHEN  Spring  with  gladness  filled  the  earth, 

To  us  it  brought  no  sound  of  mirth  ; 

We  cared  not  if  the  robin  sang ; 

We  watched  no  blossom  as  it  sprang ; 

Our  eyes  with  coming  grief  were  wet ; 

Anemone  and  violet 

Put  forth  their  little  lives  of  bloom  ; 

But  she  was  fading  for  the  tomb,  — 

Hopefully  and  trustfully 

Passing  to  Eternity. 


Now  winds  are  wild,  and  sere  leaves  fall ; 

A  dying  glory  mantles  all ; 

I  sit  and  wa-fcch  the  tears  of  rain 

Steal  slowly  down  the  window-pane. 

The  wailing  of  the  Autumn  blast 

Stirs  many  a  dead  leaf  of  the  Past 

Within  my  soul ;  I  seem  to  hear 

The  wan  lips  of  the  dying  year, 

Mournfully,  oh,  mournfully, 

Chant  a  low,  sad  melody  ! 


Old  voices  mingle  in  the  strain  ; 
Lost  dreams  of  Youth  come  back  again  ; 
Loved  forms  once  more  beside  me  stand  ; 
I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
Within  mine  own  ;  in  angel  guise 
She  comes  to  me  from  Paradise  ; 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON.  205 

She  turns  on  me  her  holy  eyes, 
That  overflow  with  mysteries, 

Lovingly,  so  lovingly, 

Full  of  immortality. 


O  weeping  rain  !  O  dying  year  ! 
Ye  bring  her  sainted  presence  near ; 
O  moaning  wind  !  O  falling  leaf! 
Ye  shall  not  fill  my  soul  with  grief 
For  her  whose  feet  so  early  trod 
The  starry  steeps  that  lead  to  God  ! 
Whose  heart  shall  never  bear  again 
Life's  weight  of  weariness  and  pain. 
Tenderly  and  joyfully 
Thrill  the  chords  of  memory ! 


THE  NECROPOLIS. 

THOUGH  the  sexton,  grim  and  old, 

Turns  the  mould, 

Damp  and  cold, 
In  the  churchyard,  for  the  bed 
Of  the  still  and  holy  dead  ; 


Though  we  see  the  green  turf  prest 

On  each  breast 

Full  of  rest, 

Full  of  quiet,  sweet  and  deep,  — 
Yet  not  there  our  loved  ones  sleep. 


206  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Oh,  the  graves  where  they  are  laid 

Sexton's  spade 

Never  made  ! 

Nor  do  sculptured  tablets  tell 
That  within  the  heart  they  dwell ; 

Where  the  winter  winds,  we  know, 

Cannot  blow, 

And  the  snow 

Never  hides  the  flowers  that  grow, 
Fadeless,  from  the  dust  below. 


THE   AURORA   BOREALIS. 

WITH  strange,  fantastic  shapes  they  haunt  my  brain  ; 

A  sky  of  amber,  streaked  with  silver  rain  ; 

A  blaze  of  glory,  Heaven's  resplendent  fh'es  ; 

A  temple  gleaming  with  a  thousand  spires  ; 

A  sea  of  light  that  laves  a  shore  of  stars  ; 

The  gates  of  Paradise,  swift-rolling  cars  ; 

A  golden  pulse,  quick-beating  through  the  night ; 

Contending  armies  mailed  in  armor  bright ; 

A  gauzy  curtain  drawn  by  unseen  hands  ; 

Night's  gorgeous  drapery  looped  with  starry  bands  ; 

Vast, 'burning  cities,  that  lie  far  away  ; 

Blushes  on  Nature's  face,  —  pale  ghosts  of  Day  ; 

A  boundless  prairie  swept  by  phantom  fire  ; 

The  vibrant  strings  of  some  gigantic  lyre  ; 

Emblazoned  chariots  ever  skyward  driven  ; 

God  writing  in  the  open  book  of  Heaven  ; 

The  flaming  banner  of  the  North  unfurled  ; 

The  mystery  that  dares  a  boasting  world  ! 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON.  207 


TO  A  BIGOT. 

You  strove  in  vain,  with  cunning  words 

And  subtle  arguments,  to  gain 
A  convert  to  your  darling  creed  ; 

Then  mocked  me  with  your  cold  disdain. 

Ah,  well !  —  sip  from  your  shallow  fount  : 
The  heart  hath  depths  you  may  not  know  ; 

And  your  philosophy  would  fail, 
Did  you  but  judge  of  Nature  so. 

You  do  not  hate  the  mountain  stream 
Because  it  floweth  wild  and  free 

In  hidden  channels  of  its  own, 

And  finds  at  last  its  home,  —  the  sea. 

You  do  not  crush  the  wayside  flower 
Because  it  wears  a  different  hue 

From  that  which  decks  your  garden-walks, 
And  only  breathes  its  sweets  for  you. 

You  do  not  wound  the  forest-bird 
Because  your  caged  canary  sings 

A  sweeter  song,  —  you  vainly  think, — 
Give  me  the  freedom  of  my  wings. 

Then  if  I  soar  beyond  your  flights, 

Or  if  I  keep  my  lowly  nest, 
What  matter,  since  I  am  content 

To  serve  my  God  as  seemeth  best? 


208  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE     DEAD. 

I  CANNOT  tell  you  if  the  dead, 
Who  loved  us  fondly  when  on  earth, 
Walk  by  our  side,  sit  at  our  hearth, 

By  ties  of  old  affection  led  ; 

Or,  looking  earnestly  within, 
Know  all  our  joys,  hear  all  our  sighs, 
And  watch  us  with  their  holy  eyes 

Whene'er  we  tread  the  paths  of  sin  ; 

Or  if,  with  mystic  lore  and  sign, 
They  speak  to  us,  or  pi'ess  our  hand, 
And  strive  to  make  us  understand 

The  nearness  of  their  forms  divine. 

But  this  I  know,  —  in  many  dreams 
They  come  to  us  from  realms  afar, 
And  leave  the  golden  gates  ajar 

Through  which  immortal  glory  streams. 


THE  VEILED   GRIEF. 

OH  !  think  not  that  my  eyes  are  dry, 
Because  you  mark  no  falling  tears : 

There  flows  a  river  deep  and  dark, 
Whose  waters  ebb  not  with  the  years. 


ALBERT  LAIOHTON.  209 

And  think  not  that  my  lips  are  mute, 

Because  you  hear  no  spoken  word 
Full-freighted  with  the  tones  of  grief: 

I  hear  a  voice  you  never  heard. 

And  think  not  that  my  heart  is  cold, 
Because  no  passion  fires  my  breast : 

There  is  a  chamber  in  my  soul 
That  only  owns  an  angel-guest. 

My  tears  fall  inward  on  my  heart, 

And,  dew-like,  keep  its  memories  green  : 

Sad  strains,  unheard  by  other  ears, 
Break  forth  for  me  from  lips  unseen. 


THE     CHIMES. 

AGES  since,  men  heard  the  ringing 
Of  the  song-bells  gently  swinging 

In  the  starry  domes  of  thought : 
Long  they  listened  to  the  chimes 
That  the  poet's  golden  rhymes 

Out  of  sweetest  fancies  wrought. 

Still  the  tuneful  bells  are  pealing, 
Waking  every  holy  feeling  ; 

Still  they  vibrate  in  the  past ; 
And  the  poet  of  to-day 
Hears  the  music  far  away, 

Clearer  than  a  clarion's  blast ! 
14 


£10        POETS  OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


SONG  OF  THE  SKATERS. 

THOUGH  winter  winds  are  whistling  loud, 

And  skies  look  cold  and  gray, 
Though  earth  lies  mute  beneath  her  shroud, 
The  skaters  !  what  care  they  ? 
A  happy  throng, 
With  mirth  and  song, 
O'er  fields  of  ice  we  swiftly  glide, 
As  sea-birds  sail  above  the  tide. 


Oh  !  well  we  know  the  winter  hours 

Fly  faster  as  we  sing  ; 
That  sooner  come  the  birds  and  flowers, 
And  loveliness  of  Spring  : 
So,  night  or  day, 
Away  !  away ! 

O'er  crystal  plains,  with  mirth  and  song, 
We  speed,  we  speed  like  the  wind  along ! 


The  heated  room,  the  crowded  hall, 

Where  pride  and  fashion  meet, 
While  waves  of  music  rise  and  fall 
In  time  to  dancing  feet,  — 
We  seek  not  these  ; 
Give  us  the  breeze, 

And  the  gleaming  floor  o'er  which  we  go 
Like  arrows  shot  from  the  hunter's  bow. 


ALBERT  LAIGIITON.  211 

Then  loud  the  stormy  winds  may  blow, 

And  skies  look  cold  and  gray  ; 
Then  earth  may  wear  her  robe  of  snow,  — 
We'll  laugh  the  hours  away  ! 
With  mirth  and  song, 
A  merry  throng, 

O'er  fields  of  ice  we'll  swiftly  glide, 
As  sea-birds  sail  above  the  tide. 


UNDER  THE   LEAVES. 

OFT  have  I  walked  these  woodland  paths 

In  sadness,  not  foreknowing 
That,  underneath  the  withered  leaves, 

The  flowers  of  Spring  were  growing. 

To-day  the  winds  have  swept  away 
Those  wrecks  of  Autumn's  splendor  ; 

And  here,  the  sweet  Arbutus-flowers 
Are  springing  fresh  and  tender. 

O  prophet  flowers  !  with  lips  of  bloom, 

Surpassing,  in  their  beauty, 
The  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells,  — 

Ye  teach  me  faith  and  duty. 

Walk  life's  dark  ways,  ye  seem  to  say, 
In  love  and  hope  ;  foreknowing 

That,  where  man  sees  but  withered  leaves, 
God  sees  the  fair  flowers  growing. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


AN  INVOCATION. 

RESTLESS  phantoms  haunt  my  brain  ! 
Come  and  ease  my  nameless  pain, 

Sleep,  —  sweet  sleep  ! 
I  would  own  thy  gentle  power ; 
It  is  midnight's  holy  hour  ; 
Wave  thy  charmed  wand  over  me, 
Let  thy  mantle  cover  me, 

Sleep,  —  sweet  sleep  ! 


Clasp  me  in  thy  dusky  arms, 
Soothe  me  with  thy  mystic  balms, 

Sleep,  —  sweet  sleep  ! 
Let  me  drink  thy  Lethean  wine, 
Press  thy  dewy  lips  to  mine, 
Fold  my  hands  and  close  my  eyes, 
Bring  me  dreams  of  Paradise, 

Sleep,  —  sweet  sleep  ! 


Linger  with  me  till  the  dawn, 
Leave  me  not  till  day  is  born, 

Sleep,  —  sweet  sleep  ! 
Then  shall  gates  of  rosy  light 
Open  for  thy  silent  flight. 
Ah  !  some  time  thou'lt  come,  I  know, 
To  my  heart,  and  never  go, 

Sleep,  —  sweet  sleep  ! 


ALBERT  LAIGIITON. 


213 


THE    WRECK. 

THE  Ocean  sang  to  my  heart  last  night, 
When  I  folded  my  hands  in  rest, 

A  song  as  sweet  as  a  mother  sings 
To  the  child  upon  her  breast. 

But  to-day  it  wails  like  a  funeral  dirge, 
As  they  tell,  in  the  quiet  town, 

How  the  English  ship,  in  sight  of  land, 
With  a  hundred  souls  went  down  ! 


BENJAMIN   D.    LAIGHTON. 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   MAY. 

WAKE,  my  Muse  !  no  longer  sleep  ! 

Once  more  thy  sweetest  numbers  bring ; 
The  Earth  a  second  Eden  shows  : 

Awake,  and  sing  the  charms  of  Spring ! 


The  orchards  redolent  of  bloom, 

The  singing  birds,  the  balmy  air, 
The  bright  green  fields,  the  warbling  brooks,  — 

To  me,  all  seem  divinely  fair ! 

No  clouds  in  yon  o'erarching  sky 
To  hide  the  sun's  enlivening  rays  ; 

No  wintry  winds  to  chill  my  frame, 
And  interrupt  my  song  of  praise. 

Once  more  upon  my  wan  worn  cheek, 

I  feel  the  soft  ambrosial  breeze, 
And  list  the  aerial  harmony 

That  floats  amid  the  blossomed  trees. 

Reclined  upon  some  grassy  steep 

That  overlooks  the  billowy  sea, 
I  love  to  watch  the  dark-blue  waves, 

And  hear  their  deep-toned  melody. 


BENJAMIN  D.   LAIGHTON.  215 

When  on  the  Earth,  night's  shadows  fall, 

Above  I  gaze  with  wondering  eyes  ; 
On  Fancy's  wing  delighted  soar, 

To  pierce  the  mysteries  of  the  skies, 

Still  on,  above  the  rolling  spheres, 

To  where  resides  the  omniscient  God,  — 

The  starry  realm  below  is  but 
The  jewelled  floor  of  his  abode  ! 

Oh  !  then  in  awe  and  rapture  whelmed, 

I  seek,  within  that  radiant  sphere, 
Those  friends  so  fondly  loved  on  earth, 

Whose  graves  received  affection's  tear. 

My  harp  !  with  thy  sweet  harmonies 

There  comes  a  low  and  dirge-like  strain, 
That  falls  upon  my  listening  ear 
.  Like  the  murmur  of  the  distant  main. 

It  may  no  more  be  mine,  my  harp  ! 

To  wake  thy  soothing  melody : 
Perchance,  when  Spring  shall  come  again, 

Silence  and  dust  may  on  me  lie. 

Be  mine  the  blissful  hope  that  points, 
Beyond  the  drear  and  shadowy  tomb, 

To  that  fair  clime  where  the  freed  soul 
Shall  flourish  in  immortal  bloom  ! 


216  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

STANZAS. 

"If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?  "  —  JOB  xiv.  14. 

WHEN  the  last  struggle's  o'er, 
And  life  this  frame  hath  fled  ; 

When  I  shall  live  no  more, 
But  lie  in  my  last  bed  ; 

Shall  I  for  ever  sleep, 

A  senseless  mass  of  clay  ; 

No  more  on  earth  to  greet 
The  light  of  opening  day  ?  — 

The  fingers  of  decay 

Deep-buried  in  my  breast, 

To  waste  my  flesh  away 
While  I  unconscious  rest. 

The  sun  shall  rise  and  set ; 

Its  shores  the  ocean  lave  ; 
The  grass  with  dews  be  wet, 

That  grows  above  my  grave. 

The  years  will  come  and  go, 
The  past  be  acted  o'er  ; 

And  yet  my  sleep  below 
Will  be  disturbed  no  more. 

Bright  star  of  Faith,  arise  ! 

And  guide  me  to  the  way 
That  leads  beyond  the  skies, 

To  the  Unclouded  Day  ! 


BENJAMIN  D.  LAIGHTON.  217 


v    THE    FIRST-BORN. 

I  SIT  beneath  the  old  elm-tree, 
And,  Memory  !  give  myself  to  thee  : 
Thou  sacred  Past !  thy  scenes  renew, 
Though  falling  tears  may  dim  the  view. 

Again,  as  in  the  days  of  yore, 

Our  first-born  plays  beside  the  door,  — 

His  little  life  a  constant  joy, 

A  bliss,  as  yet,  without  alloy. 

Time  glides  away  ;  with  strong  arms  now 
He  guides  the  team  or  holds  the  plough  ; 
His  smile  I  see,  his  tones  I  hear,  — 
That  smile,  those  tones,  are  ever  near. 

Again  I  look.     O  picture  fair  ! 
The  manly  form,  the  dark-brown  hair, 
The  clear  blue  eye,  the  cloudless  brow,  — 
Why  wonder  tears  are  falling  now  ? 

And  still  I  gaze.     Perchance  no  more 
His  welcome  form  will  pass  our  door : 
His  country  calls ;  he  hears  the  cry, 
And  gallantly  goes  forth  —  to  die. 

O  God  !  mysterious  are  thy  ways  : 
We  strive  to  pierce  the  dismal  maze, 
But  all  in  vain  ;  a  gloomy  cloud 
Envelops  us  as  with  a  shroud. 


218  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  dream  I've  reached  the  heavenly  shore, 
—  In  God's  good  time  a  dream  no  more,  - 
And,  all-entranced,  I  list  the  songs. 
Sung  to  his  praise  by  angel  tongues. 

I  see  among  the  shining  band 
The  welcome  smile,  the  beckoning  hand  ; 
And  THERE,  amid  celestial  charms, 
We  clasp  our  lost  one  in  our  arms. 


MA  R  T   E.    B.    MIL  L  E  R. 


ON   LIFE'S   THRESHOLD. 


HE  way  looks  very  long  and  dark  and  drear, 


That  leads  through  this  strange  life  to  life 

immortal : 

The  great  world's  din  is  filling  me  with  fear, 
As  I  stand,  trembling,  at  its  awful  portal. 


Oh  !  I  have  walked  till  now  in  quiet  places, 
With  Nature,  in  her  woods  and  fields  and  dells  : 
The  flowers  look  at  me  with  familiar  faces ; 
I  know  the  story  that  the  wild-bird  tells. 

I've  watched  the  Autumn  sun's  transfiguring  splendor 
Flood  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  at  day's  decline  ; 
I've  watched  the  harvest-moons  rise  calm  and  tender, 
And  fair  June  mornings  wake  with  smiles  divine. 

With  low,  sweet  melody  of  running  water, 
With  wild  leaf-music,  song  of  bird  and  bee, 
Has  Nature  welcomed  me,  where'er  I  sought  her  ; 
And  never  discord  mars  her  harmony. 


220  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Oh  !  none  of  Earth's  sad  sights  and  sounds  have  ever 
Disturbed  the  quiet  of  these  blessed  years  ; 
And  must  I  bid  these  joys  farewell  for  ever, 
To  walk  henceforward  in  a  vale  of  tears  ? 

The  world  looks  very  cold  and  dark  and  dreary, 
As  I  stand  trembling  at  its  open  gate  : 
I  hear  within  the  sighing  of  the  weary,  — 
If  I  must  enter,  let  me  longer  wait ! 

I  hear,  from  out  its  dark  and  frowning  portal, 
No  sounds  but  those  of  sin  and  woe  and  death  ; 
No  yearning  prayers  for  life  and  light  immortal, 
But  only  cries  for  bread  that  perisheth. 

And  through  the  open  gate  of  that  sad  city 
Are  strange,  dark  faces  gazing  out  on  me  : 
Oh,  how  my  heart  swells,  with  a  shuddering  pity, 
For  these,  whose  life  is  one  long  misery  ! 

For  women,  with  such  still  and  hopeless  faces  ; 
For  men,  whose  passions  live,  whose  souls  are  dead  ; 
For  childhood,  without  childhood's  sunny  graces  ; 
And  age,  without  the  halo  round  its  head. 

Are  these  the  sights  for  which  I  leave  the  mountains, 
Thy  sunlit  meadows,  and  the  blossoms  fair? 
Must  I  exchange  the  song  of  birds  and  fountains, 
For  this  dread  wailing  of  the  world's  despair? 

O  selfish  soul !  the  peace  which  God  hath  given, 
Which  keeps  thee  safe  amid  temptation's  fires  ; 
The  living  bread  that  cometh  down  from  heaven, 
And  satisfies  thine  infinite  desires,  — 


MARY  E.  D.   MILLER. 

With  these  go  bravely  forth  to  meet  thy  duty : 
Within  those  gloomy  gates  that  duty  lies. 
Fear  not  the  dimness,  —  it  will  change  to  beauty 
When  Christ  of  Nazareth  shall  anoint  thine  eyes. 

Beneath  the  weight  of  this  unending  sorrow, 
Behold  him  bending,  —  him  who  died  for  thee  ! 
Hear  how  these  moans  of  human  anguish  borrow 
The  pathos  of  his  pleading  agony ! 

No  time  remains  for  dreams,  nor  for  complaining ; 
Childhood  is  past,  —  put  childish  things  away: 
Christ  calls  thee  by  his  Spirit's  sweet  constraining : 
Arise  and  work  for  him,  while  it  is  day. 

O  world  !  thy  darkness  can  affright  no  longer  ! 
Within  its  depths  the  living  God  doth  dwell : 
Evil  is  mighty  ;  but  his  Love  is  stronger,  — 
Stronger  than  pain  and  sin  and  death  and  hell ! 


COMFORT. 

To  God  our  souls  must  flee, 
When  faith  and  sight  grow  dim  : 
The  life,  to  us  all  mystery, 
Is  perfect  light  to  him. 

Beyond  his  love's  embrace, 

We  never  can  depart ; 

E'en  when  our  sins  have  hid  his  face, 

He  holds  us  to  his  heart. 


222  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

His  mercy's  depth  and  height, 
No  woe,  no  guilt,  can  sound  : 
In  him  a  day  for  every  night, 
And  life  for  death,  are  found. 

He,  only  he,  can  know 
Our  heart's  despah'ing  pain  ; 
And  he  alone  can  comfort  so 
That  we  may  hope  again. 

O  death  and  sin  and  woe  ! 
Your  fury  we  defy  ! 
For  God  the  souls  he  loveth  so 
Will  keep  eternally. 


THE   BOOK  OF  LIFE. 

OVER  the  long,  long  ages, 
My  weary  eyes  I  strain  ; 
•  Old  Wisdom's  brightest  pages 
I  search,  and  search  in  vain : 
O  earth  !  not  all  thy  sages 
Can  soothe  one  sinner's  pain  ! 

Book  of  unending  ages  ! 
My  soul  returns  to  thee  : 
While  vainly  toil  the  sages 
To  solve  life's  mystery, 
Through  these  transfigured  pages 
God  speaks  eternally. 


MARY  E.    B.  MILLER.  223 


LITTLE  JOSEY'S   GRAVE. 

O  GENTLEST,  purest  things  of  all  on  earth,  — 
Sweet  Flowers  !  with  eyes  of  tender,  tearful  blue  ; 
When  next  the  happy  fields  shall  hail  your  birth, 
God  hath  a  holy  work  for  you  to  do. 

This  small  new  grave  —  oh  see  !    how  very  small !  - 
Must  have  a  covering  of  summer  green, 
And  down  among  the  grasses,  fresh  and  tall, 
Your  upward-looking,  starry  eyes  be  seen. 

For  aching  hearts  shall  visit  this  low  mound, 
Because  their  little  child  lies  here  asleep  ; 
And  hot  tears  rain  upon  this  sacred  ground,  — 
Then  must  ye  comfort  those  who  come  to  weep. 

Ye  have  no  accents  musical  and  tender ; 
The  preacher's  pleading  art  ye  never  knew  : 
Yet  life's  one  deep,  sweet  lesson  ye  can  render, — 
"  Trust  God,  — 'tis  all  that  broken  hearts  can  do  !  " 

Yes  :  that  is  all !     The  dearest  voice  is  hushed, 
And  on  our  hearts  a  life-long  silence  falls  ; 
The  lips  whose  smiles  made  all  our  light  are  dust, 
And  vainly  now  the  sun  the  day  recalls. 

Yet  angels  in  this  twilight  of  our  pain, 
Which  shuts  us  in  from  all  the  world  beside, 
Unto  our  souls  a  readier  welcome  gain, 
And  we  have  visions  of  the  Christ  that  died. 


224  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Father,  since  hearts  must  ache,  and  tears  must  flow, 
Oh  !  let  this  grief  on  thy  compassion  lean  ; 
And  grant  us  all,  when  burst  the  storms  of  woe, 
Thine  everlasting  love,  a  shield  between  ! 


NIGHTFALL. 

THE  storm  has  ceased,  the  winds  are  still, 

The  weary  -day  is  dying  ; 
And  deep  and  white,  on  plain  and  hill, 

The  drifted  snow  is  lying. 

As  slowly  through  the  silent  room 
The  twilight  shades  are  stealing, 

Old  memories  glimmer  in  the  gloom, 
Long-vanished  scenes  revealing. 

Sit  here  beside  me,  gentle  child, 

Where  I,  your  face  beholding, 
May  tell  you  of  your  mother  mild, 

Close  in  the  grave's  infolding. 

'Twas  fourteen  weary  years  ago,  — 

Ah  me  !  how  life  is  flying  !  — 
When  earth,  as  now,  was  white  with  snow, 

Your  mother  sweet  lay  dying. 

Without,  the  tempest's  fitful  wail 

The  starless  night  affrighted  ; 
Within,  we  saw  her  features  pale, 

With  wondrous  splendor  lighted. 


MARY  E.  B.  MILLEE.  225 

She  heeded  not  the  dreary  night, 

Heard  not  the  tempest's  wailing : 
Before  her  death-illumined  sight, 

Heaven's  glories  were  unveiling. 

She  gazed  in  deep  ecstatic  calm  ; 

Then,  with  a  smile  upspringing, 
Her  soul  sang  one  exulting  psalm, 

And  passed  away  in  singing. 

Come,  darling,  let  us  kneel ;  and  so, 

To  God  our  sorrow  bringing, 
Dwell  near  him,  praying  thus  below, 

As  she  in  heaven,  singing. 


EVENING  ASPIRATIONS. 

FATHER  in  heaven  !  thy  watchful  love  I  claim,  — 
Thy  full  forgiveness  for  this  day's  deep  sin, 
Not  in  my  own,  —  in  Jesus'  blessed  name, 
I  ask,  and,  asking  thus,  shall  surely  win. 

O  Father !  will  the  shadows  always  stay  ? 
Must  every  day,  like  this,  with  guilt  be  stained? 
Oh  !  bid  me  go  rejoicing  on  my  way, 
To  find  each  night  a  nobler  height  attained. 

When  shall  this  heart,  so  cold  and  thankless  now, 
Be  full  of  joyous  love,  my  God,  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  I  wear,  resplendent  on  my  brow, 
The  seal  that  shows  thou  hast  adopted  me  ? 

15 


226  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Be  it  by  hours  of  bitter  agony, 
By  storms  that  darken  all  my  joys  on  earth  ; 
But  wake  me  from  this  deathly  lethargy, 
And  let  me  find  the  glorious  second-birth. 

Oh  !  fill  me  with  the  spirit  of  the  cross  ; 
Let  me  go  forth  to  conquer  evermore,  — 
To  walk,  despising  shame  and  pain  and  loss, 
Wherever  my  Redeemer  trod  before. 

Arise,  my  soul !  with  quenchless  hope  and  zeal, 
All  selfish  thoughts  renouncing  from  this  hour : 
Each  day  that  passes  shall  to,  thee  reveal 
Some  new  evangel  of  God's  love  and  power. 

Oh,  onward,  upward  press!  forgetting  all 
The  sin  and  sorrow  in  the  weary  past ! 
Strive  for  a  living  faith  like  that  of  Paul ; 
And  thou,  like  him,  shalt  overcome  at  last. 

One  more  competitor  for  life's  bright  crown, 
One  more  aspirant  after  holiness, 
See,  Lord,  before  thee  humbly  bowing  down, 
Waiting  for  thee  to  strengthen  and  to  bless. 

Send  me  not  faith  alone  to  run  the  race  ; 
For  there  are  dangers  only  thou  canst  see, 
And  there  are  foes  I  should  not  love  to  face, 
If  thy  dear  hand  were  not  upholding  me. 

Oh,  then  abide  in  me,  my  blessed  Lord  ! 
And  I  in  thee  !  so  shall  I  see  the  throne, 
And  gain  at  last  —  exceeding  great  reward  !  — 
A  home  where  I  shall  "  know  as  I  am  known." 


MARY  E.  B.  MILLER.  227 


SNOW. 

THE  sunset  tints  have  faded  from  the  leaves  ; 
The  smile  of  death  is  on  the  withered  flowers  ; 
And  winter's  wind,  in  mournful  music,  grieves 
The  flight  of  summer's  golden-winged  hours. 

The  feathered  songsters  fled  with  summer's  glow, 
To  seek  the  shores  of  never-fading  green  ; 
The  woods  are  wrapped  in  solemn  silence  now, 
And  all  is  drear  where  life  and  joy  have  been. 

The  brilliant  blue  of  heaven  is  changed  to  gray  ; 
The  sunny  glow  has  left  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
No  gush  of  music  ushers  in  the  day  ; 
No  crimson  glory  crowns  its  closing  now. 

But  see  !  how,  falling  from  the  sombre  sky, 
In  silent  gracefulness,  those  pearly  things, 
So  pure,  so  fragile  too,  come  floating  by, 
Like  tiny  feathers  from  an  angel's  wings. 

And  myriads  now  are  floating  calmly  down 
To  clothe  the  fields  so  desolate  and  bare  : 
Each  withered  blossom  wears  a  crystal  crown  ; 
Each  leafless  bough,  a  robe  of  ermine  rare. 

The  wood  that  looked  so  gloomy  now  appears, 
As  if  by  magic,  tastefully  arrayed  ; 
From  every  twig  are  pendent  frozen  tears  ; 
And  wreaths  of  white  are  hung  in  every  glade. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


Oh  !  softly,  softly  falls  this  gentle  snow 
Upon  the  quiet  graves  of  some  we  love,  — 
Pure  as  the  robes  of  light  they're  wearing  now, 
In  perfect  happiness,  we  trust,  above. 

There  falls  no  snow  on  Heaven's  glorious  hills, 
But  ever  there  a  golden  summer  reigns  : 
Immortal  flowei's  their  fragrance  there  distil, 
And  life's  pure  river  feeds  those  happy  plains. 

A  few  more  summers,  with  their  gentle  rains  ; 
A  few  more  winters,  with  their  silent  snows  ; 
A  few  more  tempests  on  these  earthly  plains  ; 
A  few  more  struggles  with  our  sins  and  woes  : 

And  then  shall  break  the  day  of  endless  rest  ; 
The  raptured  soul  forget  its  stormy  past  ; 
The  shades  of  sorrow  flee  the  tranquil  breast, 
Exchanged  for  joys  that  shall  for  ever  last  ! 


THOMAS  P.   MOSES. 


TO   A   MINIATURE   OF  THE   DEPARTED. 


EWEL  more  dear  than  pearls  or  gold, 

Bright  impress  of  the  loved  and  lost ! 
Thee  to  my  bosom  will  I  fold, 

While  on  Life's  changeful  sea  I'm  tossed. 


Dear  image  of  a  soul  refined  ! 

There's  inspiration  in  thine  eyes  ; 
And  on  those  lips  seem  whispers  kind, 

Like  soothing  music  from  the  skies. 

I  gaze  upon  thy  features  fair, 

Till  fancy  paints  a  breathing  glow  : 

Thy  smile  then  dissipates  my  care, 
And  frees  my  breast  from  every  woe. 

Thy  voice  seems  raised  in  seraph  song, 
And  sweetly  echoes  in  mine  ear : 

O  heart !  deem  not  my  fancy  wrong  ; 
Still  would  I  dream  that  voice  I  hear. 


230  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   RETURNED   RING. 

TAKE  back  the  ring  I  wore  for  thee  : 
The  shining  gem  is  worthless  now  ; 

It  hath  no  magic  charm  for  me,  — 

'Twill  mind  thee  of  thy  truthless  vow. 


Oh  !  take  it  back,  —  'twas  gift  of  thine 
When  thou  wert  true,  and  life  was  fair 

No  longer  will  I  call  it  mine,  — 

False  vows  are  mirrored  in  its  srlare. 


Yet  I'll  not  murmur  at  my  fate, 

Nor  crave  a  passing  thought  of  thee  ; 

No  !  calmly  to  the  end  I'll  wait, 
To  learn  a  false  one's  destiny. 


Then  take  the  ring  I  wore  for  thee ; 

It  lends  no  inspiration  now  : 
Nought  in  the  cherished  boon  I  see, 

But  emblems  of  a  broken  vow. 


THOMAS  P.   MOSES.  231 


SYMPATHY. 

ART'S  glittering  domes  and  towers  must  fall, 
Gay  cities  crumble  with  the  dead  ; 

All  things  must  yield  to  Time's  stern  call,  — 
Thus  the  Omnipotent  hath  said. 

But  mark  the  sympathetic  breast, 

That  melts  when  Misery's  sons  are  nigh  : 

In  golden  palace,  with  the  blest, 

His  name  shall  brightly  shine  on  high. 


O  H  N    N.     MOSES. 

BORN  1811 ;   DIED  1837. 


THE   MIDNIGHT  VOICE. 

"  Then  a  spirit  passed  before  my  face ;  the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up  :  it  stood 
still,  but  I  could  not  discern  the  form  thereof:  an  image  was  before  mine  eyes ; 
there  was  silence,  and  I  heard  a  voice,  saying,  Shall  mortal  man  be  more  just 
than  God?  shall  a  man  be  more  pure  than  his  Maker?  Behold,  he  put  no  trust 
in  his  servants,  and  his  angels  he  charged  with  folly :  how  much  less  in  them 
that  dwell  in  houses  of  clay,  whose  foundation  is  in  the  dust  ?"  —  JOB  iv.  15-19. 

H  !  there  is  in  the  midnight  air  a  Voice, 
When    hushed    in    silence    is    the    dreaming 

world : 
The  magic  breathings  of  that  voice  are  heard 

o  <-> 

In  whispering  tones,  but  awfully  distinct, 

As  of  some  spirit-monitor  from  heaven, 

Charged  with  a  message  to  the  sinner's  heart. 

It  comes  not  often  to  false  Pleasure's  bower ; 

Nor  does  it  visit  oft  the  gilded  halls 

Where  glittering  Wealth  stalks  down,  and  stately  Pride 

Swells  in  her  puny,  weak  magnificence. 

Ah,  no  !  it  may  not  linger  there,  that  Voice, 

To  hold  its  friendly  warnings  out  too  long 

To  such  as  spurn  the  thought  of  penitence  ; 

For  He,  whose  promise  never  fails,  hath  said 

His  spirit  shall  not  always  strive  with  man. 


JOHN  N.  MOSES.  233 

There  is  a  glen  where  silent  Solitude, 

In  ashy  paleness,  sits  enthroned  alone  ; 

And  oft  to  that  secluded  spot  I  stray, 

When  earth  is  wrapt  in  midnight's  holiest  veil ; 

And  her  pale,  lovely  satellite  above, 

In  all  her  mellow  brightness,  marches  on, 

As  if  the  captain  of  yon  glittering  host, 

To  storm,  with  smiles,  the  erring  Atheist's  heart ; 

When  all  is  breathless,  and  when  those  harsh  sounds 

As  of  a  world  in  clashing  arms  have  died, 

Or  into  that  one  murmuring  echo  sunk 

Of  distant  ocean,  beating  on  the  shore 

With  its  broad,  foamy  crest  and  ceaseless  roar  ; 

And  when  the  flowers,  the  beauteous,  fragrant  flowers, 

Are  sending  up  their  incense  to  the  skies,  — 

Then,  then  that  holy  messenger  will  come, 

As  he  will  come  to  all  who  shun  him  not ; 

And,  holding  out  the  page  of  crime  and  sin, 

He  slowly  points  to  errors  unforgiven. 

Callous  and  cold  and  proud, 
And  rank  in  sinfulness,  my  heart  had  grown, 
Forgetting  all  the  bounties  Heaven  had  given, 
In  mercy  too,  —  the  blightings  all  withheld  ; 
And  I  had  murmured  at  that  Sovereign  Power 
Who  wields  the  sceptre  o'er  our  destinies, 
Murmured  that  one  in  beauty,  youth,  and  hope,  — 
Too  true,  alas  !  my  heart's  own  idol  dear,  — 
Was  snatched  away  by  the  grim  hand  of  Death  ; 
And,  as  I  leaned  beneath  that  drooping  tree 
Whose  boughs  seemed  weeping  as  in  sympathy 
With  hearts  shorn  of  their  dearest  cherished  hopes, 
I  trembling  heard  that  solemn  step  approach  ; 
And  in  reproachful,  yet  in  soothing  tones, 
Thus  spake  the  spirit  voice  :  — 


234  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

"  Vain  man  !  dare  ye  presume  to  be  — 

All  sinful  thus  —  more  wise  than  God  ? 
More  mighty,  holy,  just,  than  He 

Who  holds  the  eternal  judgment-rod? 
That  haughty  brow  all  crimsoned  o'er 

With  deepfelt  guilt  and  shame  must  be, 
And  that  proud  heart  must  learn  to  pour 

Its  gushings  of  humility  ! 

A  single  link  in  that  vast  chain 

Of  wisdom,  reaching  where  the  eye 
Of  mortal  strives  to  gaze  in  vain, 

Would  ye  subvert  God's  harmony? 
It  cannot  be  !  ye  may  not  scan 

What  angels  long  in  vain  to  see,  — 
Why,  in  his  dealings,  God  to  man 

Should  wrap  his  wand  in  mystery. 

Oh  !  be  content  that  he  has  spread 

The  hills  with  bounties,  fields  with  food  ; 
That  all  earth's  fruits  for  thee  are  shed,  — 

Earth's  every  blessing  for  thy  good  : 
And  though  thy  heart  has  now  been  crushed 

While  basking  in  Hope's  sunny  ray, 
Peace  !  —  let  thy  murmurings  be  hushed  : 

Shall  He  who  gave,  not  take  away  ? 

He  who  is  infinite  in  love  ; 

Who  fills  the  earth  with  bliss  for  you, 
And  spreads  that  glorious  arch  above 

To  cheer  thy  path  in  mercy  too,  — 
A  hope  of  richer  bliss  hath  given 

Beyond  the  uncertain  bounds  of  time  ; 
And  hearts,  by  sorrow  worn  and  riven, 

Shall  find  a  balsam  in  that  clime  !  " 


JOHN  N.  MOSES.  235 


Thus  spake  the  spirit,  ere  it  soared  afar, 

On  its  bright  pinions,  to  the  realms  of  day. 

But,  while  I  bowed  beneath  that  weeping  tree, 

It  lingered  yet  to  take  a  falling  tear, 

That,  like  a  film  from  off  my  stricken  soul, 

Had  rolled  in  silence.     Then  was  I  alone  ! 

Nought,  save  the  night-bird's  warbling  melody 

Among  the  gently  waving  leaves,  was  heard  ; 

And,  with  a  humbler  heart,  I  joined  his  praise,  — 

No  more  resolving  to  repine  at  Him 

Before  whose  brow  the  starry  hosts  above, 

In  all  their  splendid  brilliancy,  are  dim ; 

But  humbly  to  repent  of  errors  past, 

And  eager  strive  to  gain  an  entrance  there 

Where  all  is  harmony  and  joy  and  love. 


y  A  ME  S    R,    MA  T. 


AT  YORKTOWN. 


HE  army  slept  around  the  stream  ; 
The  camp-fires  cast  a  ruddy  gleam 


O'er  tents  that  shone  like  marble  domes. 
With  dreams  of  war  and  dreams  of  homes, 

The  army  slept  without  a  fear. 
Danger  must  reach  the  sentinel's  ear. 

Before  the  foe  to  them  may  come, 

The  alarm  must  sound  from  ready  drum. 

And  so,  in  showers  of  rain  and  sleet, 
The  sentiy  marched  his  weary  beat, 

Acling  with  zeal  a  patriot's  part, 
With  shivering  frame,  but  sturdy  heart. 

But  not  all  did  their  duty  well : 
To  one  poor  soldier  it  befell, 

That  wearied-out  with  labor  done, 
While  still  he  grasped  his  slippery  gun, 


JAMES  E.  MAY.  237 

His  strength,  despite  resolve.,  gave  way, 
And  slumbering  at  his  post  he  lay. 

Justice  had  doomed  the  man  to  die  ; 
But  Mercy  passed  the  verdict  by  : 

She  loosed  the  chains  the  prisoner  wore, 
And  set  him  free  to  strike  once  more. 

He  whom  a  friendly  power  may  save, 
A  grateful  heart  makes  doubly  brave. 

Soon  the  contending  armies  meet. 
With  gallant  rush  and  sturdy  feet 

Our  banner's  borne  toward  the  foe, 
A  beacon  in  war's  ebb  and  flow. 

Around  the  flag  in  deadly  fight 
Rebel  and  patriot  host  unite, 

Resolved  to  do  all  that  man  may 
In  battle-field  to  gain  the  day. 

The  soldier  met  the  death  he  sought, 
As  in  the  foremost  rank  he  fought ; 

And  there's  no  shadow  now  of  shame 
Upon  the  brightness  of  his  fame. 

Valor  and  gratitude  unite  ! 

A  nation  thanks  thee  for  the  sight. 

Wise  mind  !  whp  knew,  that,  to  the  heart 
Of  soldier  true,  no  keener  dart 


238 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH, 


May  come  than  a  dishonored  death  ; 
Who  knew,  that,  with  the  joyful  breath 

Of  pardon,  Mercy  lights  a  fire, 
Never  while  memory  lasts  to  expire. 

The  holy  truth  is  proved  again, — 
Mercy  ne'er  bends  to  save  in  vain  ! 


CATHERINE    M.    McCLINTOCK. 


WHEREFORE  ? 


SAW  Life  binding  myriads 

In  utter  slavery  ; 
I  saw  her  smite  them  with  disease, 

Crush  them  with  poverty, 

And  break  their  hearts,  for  human  love  that  yearned 
With  scornful  faces  ever  from  them  turned. 
Life  seemed  to  work  these  deeds  of  misery, 
As  if  compelled  unto  it,  sorrowfully. 
But,  when  I  asked  her  "wherefore?" 
She  only  bowed  her  head  : 
With  rain  of  tear-drops  shed, 
She  gave  me  back  my  "wherefore?" 

I  went  unto  Life's  victims,  —  Hope, 

Whose  wings  lagged  wearily, 
Whose  flowers  were  trampled  beneath  Life's  feet : 

Why  was  her  agony? 
The  flowers  fell  faster  as  I  questioned  ; 
The  wings  dropped  down  as  with  a  weight  of  lead  ; 
The  smiles  grew  fainter,  though  she  strove  to  smile, 
And  struggled  bravely,  for  a  little  while, 


240  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Against  that  cruel  wherefore  f 

Hope  could  not  find  it  out ; 

Death  came  to  her  with  doubt, 
His  arrow  barbed  with  "wherefore?" 

To  Love,  —  she  held  upon  her  heart 

A  body  without  breath, 
That  in  the  silence  lay  embalmed,  — 

A  casket  that  held  death. 
And  when  she  found  it  only  this  contained  ; 
To  see  but  this,  Love,  watching,  still  remained, 
Till  "  earth  had  taken  earth  ;  "  then  veiled  her  face. 
I  asked  no  wherefore  ?  for  it  filled  the  place,  — 
Love's  bitter,  despairing  "  wherefore?  " 
At  each  new  pang,  she'd  start 
With  shrinking,  bleeding  heart, 
And  utter,  moaning,  "wherefore?" 

I  saw  upon  a  mountain-top, 
The  nearest  unto  God, 
And  such  a  one  of  needs  must  be,  — 

A  mountain  Christ  had  trod,  — 
A  form,  that  could  not  but  a  shadow  be  ; 
A  shining  rather  seemed  it  unto  me  : 
There  stood  a  shape  betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven  ; 
The  human  and  divine  both  to  her  given. 
And,  when  I  asked  Faith  "wherefore?" 
From  Holy  Scroll  she  read,  — 
"  God  is  love."     Thou,  like  the  dead, 
Should'st  know  all  things  are  therefore. 


CATHERINE  M.  McCLINTOCK.  241 


FAITH. 

FAITH  that  is  born  of  sunshine  ; 

Faith  that's  a  sunbeam  only, 
Dead  on  the  storm-cloud's  bosom, 

Leaving  life  dim  and  lonely. 

Faith  that  is  born  of  darkness  ; 

Child,  too,  of  eternal  light ; 
Ray  from  the  star  unsetting, 

That  glorifieth  night. 

Faith  that  is  born  of  quiet,  — 

A  fair  and  delicate  thing, 
That  faints  at  the  first  o'ersweeping 

Of  cloud  or  shadowy  wing. 

Faith  that  is  born  of  struggle,  — 

Sinewy,  elastic,  strong 
In  the  soul,  not  soul's  surroundings, 

It  shall  aye  to  the  soul  belong. 

Faith  that  is  born  of  ignorance, 

Unquestioning,  blind  from  its  birth  : 

The  lightning  that  openeth  its  eyelids 
Striketh  it  dead  to  the  earth. 

Faith  that  is  born  of  knowledge, 

Its  elder  brother  Doubt, 
Whom  it  wrestleth  with,  and  o'ercometh, 

And  shall  live  evermore  without. 
16 


242  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Till  we  have  passed  beyond  him 
Who  stops  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 

With  thanks  our  guide  dismissing, 
Whose  sight  for  faith  is  given. 


DEATH   IN   SPRING. 

NATURE'S  life-throb  strengthened,  quickeneth 
Count  we  a  pulse-beat  faint  and  slow  ; 

Passing  beneath  her  arches  of  triumph, 
Vanquished,  graveward  her  child  must  go. 

Vanquished  !  but  not  so  for  ever  : 
Keep  thy  triumph,  O  Nature  life  ! 

Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  together, 
Soul  shall  see  their  parting  strife. 

Tree  and  plant  and  flower  upspringing, 

Fades  life's  nobler  bloom  away  ? 
Death  the  pictured  form  effaceth, 

Faintly  drawn  upon  the  clay. 

Bird  and  breeze  and  brook  in  chorus, 

Striving  with  one  dying  tone,  — 
Soul  shall  sing  when  ye  are  silent ; 

Drown  that  breathing  faint  —  swell  on  ! 

Catching  a  tone  that  falls  from  heaven, 

Sings  this  life  like  a  mocking-bird  : 
Let  the  notes'  die  !  soaring  God-ward, 
.  The  immortal  skylark's  heard. 


CATHERINE  M,   McCLINTOCK. 


243 


Father !  to  thee  we  commend  the  spirit 

Over  the  waters  drifting  to  thee  ; 
Down  in  the  black  gulf,  O  white  Angel  diver ! 

Rescue  the  soul  —  Immortality  ! 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  sea,"  cries  the  Angel : 
Crieth  the  soul,  the  sea  could  not  drown  : 

Safe  on  the  shore  where  the  God-beloved  season, 
Spring-time  eternal,  weareth  the  crown. 


E  D  WA  RD     P.     JV O  11 


THE   DESERTED   HOMESTEAD. 

ECAYED  and  brown  the  old  house  lonely 

stands 
Beneath  the  elm-trees'  flecked  and  shifting 

shade, 

Denoting  Time's  imperative  commands, — 
That  earthly  things  but  bloom  to  early  fade. 


The  great  square  chimney  with  its  gaping  top, 
The  windows  leering  like  lithe  spectres  grim,  — 

While  summer  evening's  stealthy  shadows  drop,  — 
Their  peak-like  fragments  render  them  less  dim. 

The  mossy  curb-roof,  of  its  shelter  shorn, 

Whose  fissures  wide  the  spider  strives  to  close  ; 

The  hingeless  door,  reclining,  seems  to  mourn 
Its  long-lost  friend,  the  fragrant  climbing  rose. 

No  path  now  leads  adown  the  gentle  slope 

To  where  the  broken  well-sweep  marks  the  place, 

Where  once  rose  sweet  and  cool  the  bubbling  rope 
Of  globules,  in  the  limpid  water's  face. 


EDWARD  P.  NOWELL.  245 

The  circling  stones  that  saw  the  bucket  pass, 
So  oft  o'erflowing,  to  the  sphere  of  light, 

Have,  one  by  one,  dropped  in  ;   and  now,  alas  ! 
The  ruined  well  will  weep  in  endless  night. 

Within,  the  creaking  floors  a  tale  relate, 

Of  vanished  scenes  now  with  the  Past  entombed, 

When  all  these  rooms  re-echoed  with  the  prate 
Of  those  whose  hearts  to  claim  no  care  presumed. 

Unfeeling  Time  !  what  changes  hast  thou  wrought 
Within  this  dwelling,  all  forsaken  now ; 

In  which  the  worthy  parents  early  sought 
With  traits  of  truth  their  offspring  to  endow. 

Where  are  the  members  of  this  household  good, 
Who  erstwhile  gave  these  rooms  a  pleasing  guise  ; 

Who  by  their  footsteps,  where  the  tables  stood, 
Wore  thin  the  floor,  and  made  the  nails  uprise? 

Down  by  the  winding  wall  a  willow  waves, 

The  ivy  clings  around  a  modest  pale  : 
In  this  enclosure  lifts  a  line  of  graves,  — ' 

Yon  home  yields  all  to  that  within  the  vail. 

The  little  ones  were  smitten  by  the  stroke 

Of  cureless  maladies,  and  borne  away 
O'er  Death's  cold,  sullen  stream,  which  wholly  broke 

The  mother's  heart  upon  that  tearful  day. 

Like  Rachel  mourning  for  her  loved  and  lost, 
Refusing  comfort  from  her  Ramah  friends  ; 

So  was  this  mother  on  the  ocean  tost 

Of  bitter  sorrow,  which  no  solace  lends  ! 


246  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But  Death,  the  sable  sovereign,  loosed  the  cord 
Which  bound  the  broken-hearted  to  her  grief; 

And  all  her  tears  were  dried,  when  with  the  Lord 
She  knelt,  —  adoring  Him  who  brought  relief. 

Alone  the  stricken  father  walked  on  earth, 
Alone  he  lived  beneath  his  humble  roof; 

Yet  not  alone,  —  since  of  the  second-birth 
His  heart  in  resignation  gave  the  proof. 

The  dear  Redeemer  dwelt  with  him  below, 

And  gave  him  faith  and  trust,  with  calm  content ; 

Life's  river  flowed  where  fruitful  fig-trees  grow,  — 
His  peace  was  sure,  because  'twas  heaven-sent. 

Thus  age  crept  on  the  head  of  this  good  man  ; 

And,  with  the  precious  Bible  on  his  knee, 
He  sat  upon  his  door-stone,  where  began 

The  life  beyond  Time's  rough  and  stormy  sea. 

Thus  was  he  found,  —  his  head  bowed  o'er  that  Book 
Which  was  his  rod  and  staff  in  life  and  death  ; 

His  face  wore  heavenly  smiles,  as  though  he  took 
And  kissed  the  Saviour's  hand  with  latest  breath  ! 


WINTER. 


THE  sly  Frost-king  has  blown  his  bitter  breath 
O'er  Summer's  bright-eyed  children  in  an  hour, 

And  shown  in  Autumn's  hues  the  stroke  of  death, 
The  gorgeous  painting  of  his  wondrous  power. 


EDWARD   P.   NOWELL.  247 

Scene  beyond  scene  of  forest  and  of  field 

View  Winter's  frigid  reach  from  Iceland's  hills  ; 

And  through  the  land  his  potent  stamp  has  sealed 
The  mouths  of  rivers  and  the  voice  of  rills. 

Enrobed  in  white  lie  Nature's  withered  forms,  — 
Their  place  of  rest  marked  by  the  leaf-shorn  trees, 

On  earth's  cold  plains  to  sleep  'neath  howling  storms, 
Till  Spring's  loud  trump  shall  wake  the  birds  and 
bees. 

While  wintry  blasts  dirge  through  the  gloomy  street, 
Where  starving  beings  dread  the  coming  dawn  ; 

To  these,  oh,  may  the  Watcher  guide  the  feet 
Of  Charity,  ere  life's  last  spark  is  gone  ! 


TO  JOHN   B.   GOUGH. 

GREAT  Champion  of  the  Right !     Thy  clarion  voice 
The  erring  world  checks  in  its  thorny  path, 
Securing  oft  absolvement  from  God's  wrath  ! 

Thy  rare  persuasive  power  makes  those  rejoice 
To  whom  life  had  before  been  baleful  blight. 

Thou  hast  outvied  the  Alchemist  of  old,  — 

Hast  turned  the  brass  of  Wrong  to  Truth's  pure  gold  ! 
Thy  armor  girded  on  in  fearless  fight 

'Gainst  Error  and  Oppression's  base  array, 
Combating  Sin  with  all  its  hydra  heads,  — 
The  blood  of  Acratus  thy  sharp  sword  sheds  ! 

Brave  Conqueror !  Truth's  standard  high  display, 
Till,  for  thy  shining  soul,  the  angel's  hand 
Shall  lift  the  veil  before  the  Better  Land  ! 


248  POETS   OF  -PORTSMOUTH. 


P^EAN   FOR  VICTORY. 

SHOUT,  shout,  the  tidings  o'er 
The  land,  from  shore  to  shore,  — 

All  shall  be  free  ! 
The  Knights  of  Bondage  bleed, 
Rebellion's  ranks  recede, 
Our  arms  triumphant  lead 

To  victory ! 

All  hail  the  glorious  sight ! 
Columbia's  martial  might 

Traitors  astounds ! 
Fair  Freedom's  valiant  host 
Has  silenced  Slavery's  boast, 
Along  Secessia's  coast, 

And  through  her  bounds  ! 

God  grant  we  soon  may  see 
Enduring  unity, 

And  sheathe  the  sword  ; 
Our  Country's  foemen  felled, 
Secession's  spirit  quelled, 
The  smoke  of  strife  dispelled, 

And  Peace  restored  ! 

Then  Union's  banner  bright 
Shall  herald  Freedom's  light 

On  shore  and  sea, 
And  Heaven's  benignant  rays 
Illume  the  Nation's  days,  — 
Our  hearts  ascribing  praise, 

Great  God,  to  thee  ! 


EDWARD  P.   NOWELL.  249 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

HE  is  gone,  the  Christian  philanthropist, 
Dear  Nature's  student,  beloved  of  all  compeers ; 
His  eyes  are  closed,  his  ears  no  longer  list 
To  catch  the  subtile  music  of  the  spheres  ! 

The  starry  skies  their  mysteries  revealed 
To  his  untiring,  scrutinizing  gaze  ; 
And  shifting  clouds  afforded  him  a  field, 
Whose  wealth  did  e'en  his  sapient  mind  amaze. 

His  years  with  studious  introspection  fraught,  — 
The  fleeting  moments  were  to  him  like  gold  ; 
Yet  if,  to  evolve  a  giant  truth,  close  thought 
Of  years  were  spent,  these  years  gave  joy  untold. 

With  what  intrepid,  marked  enthusiasm 
He  wrestled  with  his  problems  dark  and  dense, 
And  bridged  by  patient  toil  as  wide  a  chasm 
As  challenged  minds  of  keen  Baconian  sense  ! 

Removed  from  life's  vast  and  diffuse  concerns, 
In  which  his  ease  to  care  did  oft  concede, 
The  destitute  with  tearful  sorrow  learns 
A  friend  is  gone  who  was  a  friend  indeed. 

His  sympathetic  heart  acutely  felt 
The  wants  of  the  down-trodden  and'  oppressed  : 
Full  many  say,  to  whom  in  need  he  dealt, 
The  name  of  MERIAM  be  for  ever  blessed  ! 


250  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

A  noble  life  is  lost  to  us  on  earth, 
A  soul  as  pure  as  angel  robes  of  white  : 
This  life  in  brighter  realms  receives  its  birth, 
This  soul  exults  in  heaven's  transcendent  lio-h 


THE     SEA. 

I  STOOD,  and  listened  to  the  Ocean's  roar, 

As  on  the  scowling  crags  he  leaped  and  raved, 

And  spent  his  fury  on  the  rugged  shore, 

Where  many  sink,  and  where  how  few  are  saved  ! 

O  treacherous  Deep  !  to-day  thou  art  a  friend 
To  trusting  man  upon  thy  tranquil  main, 

But  mayst  to-morrow  prove  his  fatal  foe  : 
He  sinks  —  his  foe  thou  canst  not  be  again  ! 

The  beat  of  ocean-waves  sepulchral  sounds, 
As  on  the  darkened  air  they  strangely  moan  : 

To  me  it  seems  as  if  their  countless  dead 

Were  now  just  gasping  their  expiring  groan  ! 

The  fierce  Storm-king  hides  not  his  form  to-night ; 

In  his  cloud-car  he  comes  forth  to  destroy  ; 
His  yell  terrific  makes  the  sea  run  mad, 

And  in  his  grasp  whole  fleets  are  but  a  toy  ! 

The  demon  cliffs  are  lurking  in  the  gloom, 

And  trembling  ships  haste  to  white  spectral  shoals 

O  God  of  Pity  !  stay  their  fearful  course, 

And  snatch  from  restive  graves  despairing  souls  ! 


EDWARD  P.   NOWELL.  251 


THE   OLD   OAKEN   CRADLE. 

SWEET  scenes  of  my  boyhood  !  I  love  to  recall  them, 
Electric  they  shimmer  on  mem'ry's  warm  sky,  — 
The  radiant  river,  the  hills  grand  and  solemn, 
And  all  the  dear  haunts  in  the  forest  near  by. 
I  watch  these  fresh  views  on  the  Past's  panorama 
Unfold  as  among  the  enchantments  of  earth,  — 
The  ancient  red  house,  in  which  Life's  devious  drama 
Commenced  in  the  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth  : 
The  old  oaken  cradle,  the  rocker-worn  cradle, 
The  high-posted  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth. 


Near  two  generations  from  earth  have  departed 
Since    home    in    high    state    this    quaint    cradle    was" 

brought, 

Attesting  ihe  advent  of  one  who,  light-hearted, 
Gave  joy  pure  and  holy,  of  sad  sorrow  nought. 
Dear  relic  of  dream-days  !  what  rest  have  you  granted 
To  mother  and  infant  when  hushed  was  his  mirth  ! 
How  grateful  was  sleep  when  the  babe  for  it  panted  !  — 
A  boon  is  the  cradle  which  stands  by  the  hearth  ! 
The  old  oaken  cradle,  the  rocker-worn  cradle, 
The  high-posted  cradle  which  stands  by  the  hearth. 


Not  all  mem'ry's  promptings  of  by-gones  that  gather 
Are  free  from  a  sadness  made  sacred  by  space, 
Since  angels  led  two  from  our  home,  —  and  for  ever 
Seraphic  behold  they  ImmanuePs  face  ; 


252  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  we  who  remain  live  more  or  less  distant, 
But  never  forget  we  the  place  of  our  birth  : 
The  light  of  our  mem'ry,  in  realms  reminiscent, 
Reveals  the  staid  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth  : 
The  old  oaken  cradle,  the  rocker-worn  cradle, 
The  high-posted  cradle  which  stood  by  the  hearth. 


CHILD   AND    CHERUB. 

BABY  Nora,  peering  out 

Through  the  casement,  gave  a  shout 

So  full  of  glee, 

Its  melody 

Blending  with  the  thrush's  trill, 
Like  the  breeze  with  rippling  rill,  — 
'Twas  a  scene  so  sweet  to  see, 
That  I  gazed  admiringly. 


Passing  by  her  home  next  day, 
All  is  mute  ;  no  child  at  play, 

No  open  blind, 

No  face  I  find  ! 
Baby  Nora,  why  so  still  ? 
Dost  thou  sleep  or  art  them  ill  ? 
Hush  !  give  ear  !  her  spirit  is 
Hymning  heavenly  harmonies ! 


EDWARD  P.   NOWELL.  253 


ROCKY    GLEN. 

DEAR  Rocky  Glen  !  to  thee  belong 
Minerva's  praise,  Apollo's  song  ! 
Thy  name  the  sparkling  brooks  rehearse, 
To  thee  sing  woods  in  varied  verse  : 
Green  hills  o'erlook  thy  quiet  view, 
Through  vistas  grand  gleam  waters  blue, 
And  tender  vine  climbs  friendly  tree 
In  Rocky  Glen,  down  by  the  sea. 


From  bough  and  nest  in  leafy  shade, 
Where  birds  their  homes  secure  have  made, 
They,  sweet-voiced  warblers,  strive  to  tell 
With  what  delight  their  bosoms  swell ; 
Gay  fairy  sylphs  glide  through  thy  bowers, 
And  dance  away  the  sunny  hours ; 
And  wild  sweets  woo  the  honey-bee 
In  Rocky  Glen,  down  by  the  sea. 


Thy  azure  windows,  golden  doors, 

Gild  thy  green  walks,  and  gem  thy  shores, 

Abode  of  peace  and  purity  ! 

Fair  sunbeams  linger  long  with  thee  ; 

Clear  streamlets  bathe  thy  spangled  feet ; 

Thy  face  is  with  rich  charms  replete  ; 

To  realms  of  bliss  is  found  a  key 

In  Rocky  Glen,  down  by  the  sea  ! 


MRS.    C.   E.   R.   PARKER. 


LOST  AND   WON. 

the  freshness  of  life's  morning, 
Lost  the  tints  of  rosy  light, 
Which,  like  daylight's  perfect  dawning, 

Covered  all  with  glory  bright ; 
Lost  the  golden  locks  which  shaded 

Brow  so  smooth,  and  eyes  so  blue  ; 
And  the  happy  smile  has  faded 
Round  those  lips  of  rosy  hue. 

I  have  lost,  —  but  I  have  won. 

Lost  the  kind  oblivious  sleeping 
Which  enshrouds  the  little  child, 

Like  the  holy  angels'  keeping,  — 

Saintly  watches,  calm  and  mild. 
Lost  the  dreams  of  sunny  hours, 

Where  no  terror  dare  intrude  ; 

Lost  the  dreams  of  love  and  flowers, 
Of  the  beautiful  and  good. 

I  have  lost,  —  but  I  have  won. 

Lost,  —  oh  most  of  all  the  losses  !  — 

Lost  the  childlike,  earnest  faith, 
Loving  on  'mid  joys  and  losses, 

Thankful  still  for  all  it  hath. 


MBS.   C.  E.  R.  PARKER.  255 

I  have  lost  youth's  simple  blossoms  ; 
Each  hath  departed,  one  by  one  ; 
But,  oh,  blessing  without  measure  ! 

I  have  lost,  — but  I  have  won. 

I  have  won,  through  earnest  striving, 

Guerdons  above  all  the  loss  ; 
Hopes  once  faded,  now  reviving, 

Twining  round  the  sacred  cross. 
Sorrow  pale  hath  been  my  teacher ; 

Hopes  bereft,  my  gentle  friends  ; 
Graves  of  the  loved,  my  silent  preachers, 

Where  dust  with  dust  so  sadly  blends. 

I  have  lost,  —  but  I  have  won. 

I  have  won,  through  tribulation, 

Title  to  a  heavenly  home, 
Working  out  my  own  salvation, 

Through  the  blood  of  Christ  alone. 
Oh  !  my  future  brightest  seemeth  ; 

Eye  of  faith,  exchanged  for  sight, 
With  celestial  splendor  beameth 

On  through  darkness  into  light. 

I  have  lost,  —  but  I  have  won. 

I  have  won  bright  hopes  immortal 

Of  a  heaven  of  peace  and  rest ; 
E'en  now  I  linger  at  the  portal 

As  a  kindly  bidden  guest. 
Lost  and  won  !  —  O  earth,  O  heaven  ! 

Hark  !  —  I  list  the  angels'  strain, 
Voices  in  the  silence  even  ! 

Small  the  loss,  and  great  the  gain  ! 

I  have  lost,  — but  I  have  won. 


256  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


"LORD,   IS   IT   I?" 

"  LORD,  is  it  I?  "  I  ask  in  tears  and  sadness, 

I,  thy  disciple  at  thy  sacred  board, 
Who  from  thy  cup  hath  drank,  thy  bread  hath  broken  ; 

Oh  !   is  it  I  who  shall  betray  my  Lord  ? 

"  Lord,  is  it  I?"  I  ask  in  deep  emotion  ! 

"  Exceeding  sorrowful,  "  my  heart  wTould  say 
Though  I  should  die  with  thee,  I'll  not  deny  thee  : 

Forbid  it,  Lord,  that  I  thy  trust  betray. 

"  Lord,  is, it  I?"     Thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee  ; 

"  I  love  thy  habitation  and  thy  seat ;" 
I  love  to  hear  thy  gospel's  holy  teaching : 

With  Mary,  I  could  worship  at  thy  feet. 

"  Lord,  is  it  I?"     I  tremble  at  the  question  : 
Oh  !   is  my  faith  so  weak  in  Christ,  my  God, 

That  I  for  worldly  gain  could  sell  my  Master,  — 
That  I  for  worldly  joys  deny  my  Lord  ? 

"  Lord,  is  it  I?"     Thou  knowest  my  temptations, 
My  spirit  willing,  though  my  flesh  is  weak  ; 

My  earnest  striving,  and  my  often  failing, 
Sinning,  repenting,  still  thy  grace  I  seek. 

"  Lord,  is  it  I?  "     Oh,  cheer  my  drooping  spirit ! 

Unto  thy  cross  I  cling  in  humble  prayer, 
Distrusting  all  but  thee  and  thy  great  merit : 

O  blessed  Saviour,  take  me  in  thy  care  ! 


MRS.   C.  E.   R.  PARKER.  257 


THINE   FOR   EVER. 

THINE  for  ever  !  Thine  for  ever  ! 

What  to  me  is  chance  or  change? 
Can  the  love  I  once  have  plighted 

Ever  to  my  heart  be  strange  ? 

Thine  for  ever  !     So  I  whispered, 
When  thy  lips  first  spoke  of  love  ; 

Thine  for  ever !  though  now  severed, 
I  on  earth,  and  thou  above. 

Thine  for  ever  !  was  thy  promise  ; 

Not  "  ////  death  us  part"  was  mine  : 
Through  this  life,  and  still  for  ever, 

Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  thine. 

Thine  for  ever  !  what  though  anguish  — 
Oh  most  deep  !  —  did  rend  my  heart, 

When  on  earth  our  bliss  was  severed, 
And  I  saw  thy  life  depart ; 

Saw  thine  eyes  (most  tender  gazers) 
Fade  in  death  while  fixed  on  mine  ; 

Felt  my  life  was  fast  departing, 

While  I  trembling  watched  for  thine  ; 

Saw  thy  form  borne  sadly  from  me, 

Laid  beneath  the  grassy  sod  ; 
Kneiv  my  eyes  no  more  would  greet  thee, 

Till  we  meet  before  our  God  ! 
17 


258  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

What  though  many  suns  have  lingered 

O'er  thy  lonely  grass-clad  bed  ? 
What  though  nights  and  days  have  found  me 

Weeping  o'er  my  blessed  dead? 

Thine  for  ever !  still  for  ever ! 

Oh  !  no  death  can  part  us  twain  ; 
Thine  on  earth,  and  thine  in  heaven, 

Blessed  thought,  —  we  meet  again  ! 

Meet !  —  we  never  yet  have  parted  : 

Thy  dear  form  is  lost  to  sight ; 
.  But  the  hearts  ivhich  God  united, 

Death  can  never  disunite. 

Thine  for  ever  !  —  others  whisper 

Words  of  love  into  my  ear  : 
Know  they  not  the  deathless  feeling, 

Which  will  ever  linger  here  ? 

Know  they  not  that  love  as  ours, 

On  through  life  and  death  the  same, 

Knows  no  change, — that  earthly  sorrows 
Cannot  quench  the  sacred  flame  ? 

Thine  for  ever  !  —  soon  I  meet  thee, 
Still  thine  own  as  thou  art  mine  ; 

Meet  thee,  never  more  to  sever, 
Still  thine  own,  for  ever  thine  ! 


MBS.   C.  E.  It.  PAEKEE.  259 


THE   OLD   KITCHEN-FIRE. 

OH  !  happy  were  my  early  days, 

And  pleasant  was  my  home, 
And  sunny  was  the  green  hillside 

Where  I  was  wont  to  roam. 
No  scenes,  which  memory  recalls, 

My  thoughts  with  joy  inspire, 
Compared  to  my  own  little  seat 

Beside  the  kitchen-fire. 

The  quiet  winter  evening, 

When,  with  my  simple  book 
Or  knitting-work,  I  claimed  my  seat : 

In  that  snug,  cosy  nook 
I  listened  to  the  older  folk  ; 

For  I  could  never  tire 
Of  all  the  twice-told  tales  I  heard 

Beside  that  kitchen-fire. 

The  spacious  chimney  deep  and  wide, 

The  broad  old  kitchen-hearth 
Of  bright-red  bricks,  that  in  the  blaze 

Would  blink  as  if  in  mirth  ; 
The  kettle,  sending  forth  its  steam, 

And  cheery  little  song  ; 
The  low,  calm  ticking  of  the  clock, 

Speeding  the  hours  along. 

The  cricket,  from  his  hiding-place, 
His  little  voice  would  lend  ; 

The  merry  heart !  I  welcomed  him 
As  if  he  were  a  friend. 


260  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

The  smiling  basket,  full  of  chips, 

Did  screen  the  little  thing : 
I  did  not  care  to  hunt  him  out, 

I'd  rather  hear  him  sing. 

And  pussy  sat,  with  half-shut  eyes, 

And  black  and  glossy  fur, 
Dozing  the  sleepy  hours  away 

With  low,  contented  purr. 
How  the  great  logs  would  blaze  and  roar, 

And  crackle  as  in  glee  ! 
While  the  bright  sparks  went  flying  up, — 

A  goodly  company  ! 

What  magic  power  that  bright  fire  had  ! 

No  artist  ever  drew, 
With  skilful  hand,  such  glowing  scenes, 

All  beautiful  and  new  : 
Bright  colors  from  dear  fairy-land, 

The  happy  limner  blends  ; 
And,  'mid  the  embers,  shadowed  forth 

Faces  of  little  friends. 

Old  happy  times  !     My  heart  goes  back, 

And  wonders  at  the  change, 
While  painful  memories  press  around, 

And  whisper,  "  Is  it  strange? 
Oh  !  where  has  gone  the  simple  heart, 

The  humble,  calm  desire, 
Which  made  that  little  seat  so  dear 

Beside  the  kitchen-fire  "  ? 


MBS.    C.   E.   R.   PARKER.  261 


BLUE   FLOWERS. 

You  ask  which  flowers  I  love  the  best, 
When  Spring  calls  forth  her  pretty  train, 
And,  each  in  cheerful  garments  dressed, 
She  sends  them  forth  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

Give  me  blue  flowers, 

To  grace  my  bowers  ! 
The  "  perfett  color,  "  —  heaven's  own  blue, 

Meek  violet 

In  emerald  set, 
And  glistening  with  the  fragrant  dew  ; 

Or  by  the  brook, 

With  downcast  look, 
The  nodding  harebell's  fairy  form 

I  love  to  see, 

Where,  lowly,  she 
Doth  bend  her  head  to  meet  the  storm. 

Blue  flowers  !  —  oh,  give  me  fair  blue  flowers  ! 
So  pleadingly  their  azure  eyes 
Uplook  in  mine  at  morning's  hour, 
Taking  their  color  from  the  skies  : 

Of  heaven  they  learn, 

To  heaven  they  turn 
Their  opening  bells  at  break  of  day  ; 

And  heaven  doth  shed 

On  each  fair  head 
A  blessing  on  them  where  they  lay,  — 

A  blessing  meet 

For  flowers  so  sweet, 


262  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

A  portion  of  her  glory  bright. 

Our  prayer  should  be, 

Oh,  thus  may  we 
Be  clothed  upon  with  robes  of  light ! 


GOOD  NIGHT,  LITTLE  DAUGHTER,  GOOD  NIGHT! 

GOOD  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 

Sleep  sweetly,  oh,  quietly  sleep  ! 
Send  down  thy  kind  angels,  our  Father  in  heaven, 

A  watch  o'er  the  slumberer  to  keep  : 

Good  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 

Good  night,  little  daughter  !  good  night ! 

Dream  sweetly,  oh,  quietly  dream  ! 
Send  down  blessed  dreams,  our  Father  in  heaven, 

Beneath  her  closed  eyelids  to  gleam  : 

Good  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 

Good  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 

Wake  brightly,  oh,  cheerfully  wake  ! 
With  the  fresh  morning  dawn,  our  Father  in  heaven, 

Oh  break  her  light  slumbers,  oh  break ! 

Good  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 

Good  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 

She  is  thine,  blessed  Jesus,  —  is  thine: 
Oh,  cease  not  thy  care,  gracious  Father  in  heaven  ! 

This  treasure  to  thee  we  resign  : 

Good  night,  little  daughter,  good  night ! 


MRS.   C.   E.  It.   PARKER.  263 


MY    CROSS. 

IT  is  not  heavy,  agonizing  woe 

Bearing  me  down  with  hopeless,  crushing  weight ; 

No  ray  of  comfort,  in  the  gathering  gloom  ; 

A  heart  bereaved,  —  a  household  desolate. 

It  is  not  sickness,  with  her  withering  hand, 
Keeping  me  low  upon  a  couch  of  pain ; 
Longing  each  morning  for  the  weary  night,  — 
At  night  for  weary  day  to  come  again. 

It  is  not  poverty,  with  chilling  blast ; 
The  sunken  eye,  the  hunger-wasted  form  ; 
The  dear  ones  perishing  for  lack  of  bread, 
With  no  safe  shelter  from  the  wintei"'s  storm. 

It  is  not  slander,  with  her  evil  tongue  ; 
'Tis  no  "  presumptuous  sin  "  against  my  God  ; 
Not  reputation  lost,  or  friends  betrayed,  — 
That  such  is  not  my  cross,  I  thank  thee,  Lord  ! 

Mine  is  a  daily  cross  of  petty  cares, 
Of  little  duties  pressing  on  my  heart ; 
Of  little  troubles  hard  to  reconcile  ; 
Of  inward  struggles,  overcome  in  part. 

My  feet  are  weary  in  their  daily  rounds, 
My  heart  is  weary  of  its  daily  care ; 
My  sinful  nature  often  doth  rebel,  — 
I  pray  for  grace  my  daily  cross  to  bear. 


264  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

It  is  not  heavy,  Lord,  yet  oft  I  pine  ; 

It  is  not  heavy,  but  'tis  ever  here  ; 

By  day  and  night,  each  hour  my  cross  I  bear : 

I  dare  not  put  it  down,  —  thou  laid'st  it  there. 

I  dare  not  put  it  down  :  I  only  ask, 
That,  taking  up  my  daily  cross,  I  may 
Follow  my  Master,  humbly,  step  by  step, 
Through  clouds  and  darkness  unto  perfect  day 


UNDER  THE   SNOW. 

BEAUTIFUL  things  lie  hidden 

Under  the  snow : 
Tulips  and  daffodils  sleeping, 
Myrtles  with  broad  leaves  are  creeping, 
And  blue-eyed  forget-me-nots  peeping, 

Under  the  snow. 

Beautiful  things  lie  hidden 

Under  the  snow  : 
The  crocus  and  dear  little  daisies, 
Arbutus  in  wonderful  mazes 
Its  sweet-scented  tendrils  upraises, 

Under  the  snow. 

Beautiful  things  lie  hidden 

Under  the  snow : 

But  they  will  awake  in  the  morning ; 
When  spring  with'  warm  sunshine  is  dawning, 
They  will  peep  out  from  under  their  awning 

Under  the  snow. 


MBS.    C.  E.  B.   PARKER.  265 

Our  dear  little  Alice  lies  hidden 

Under  the  snow : 

The  angels  their  kind  watch  are  keeping, 
O'er  our  beautiful  treasure  safe  sleeping,  — 
No  pain  and  no  sorrow  or  weeping 

Under  the  snow. 

Yes  !  beautiful  Alice  lies  hidden 

Under  the  snow ! 

But  she  will  awake  in  the  morning, 
When  the  bright  resurrection-day  dawning, 
No  more  to  lie  down  'midst  our  mourning, 

Under  the  snow  ! 


OUR     LAMB. 

TAKE  away  the  little  baby, 

Folded  in  his  garments  white  ; 
Place  him  in  the  rosewood  casket, 

Close  the  lid  upon  him  tight ; 
Throw  the  pall  upon  the  coffin, 

Bear  our  little  one  away  ; 
Leave  me  in  my  quiet  chamber,  — 

We  have  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 

Bear  the  casket  and  its  jewel 

Out  beneath  the  open  sky  : 
Dust  to  dust,  our  little  treasure 

With  its  mother-earth  must  lie. 
Heap  the  sod  upon  the  coffin, 

Hide  our  darling  quite  away  ; 
Leave  me  in  my  quiet  chamber,  — 

We  have  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Let  him  sleep  on,  while  the  daisies 

Bloom  upon  the  grassy  sod  : 
Leave  him  there,  our  fairest  flower, 

Leave  our  darling  with  his  God  ! 
Very  lonely,  sad,  and  heart-sick, 

On  my  bed  I  weep  and  pray  ; 
Leave  me  in  my  quiet  chamber,  — 

We  have  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 

Only  three  short  weeks  I  had  him 

Folded  in  my  arms  of  love  ; 
Then  the  Heavenly  Shepherd  called  him 

To  that  other  fold  above. 
Oh  !  I  know  my  child  is  safest, 

Borne  on  angel  wings  away  ; 
Yet  my  tears  are  falling,  falling, 

For  we've  lost  our  lamb  to-day. 

Bear  him,  angels,  far  above  us, 

To  the  regions  of  the  blest : 
No  more  pain,  no  sin,  no  sorrow, — 

Safe  within  the  fold  of  rest. 
Throbbing  heart-aches,  tears  of  anguish, 

Let  me  banish  you  away  ! 
Oh,  rejoice  !  though  sick  and  lonely,  — 

Heaven  has  gained  our  lamb  to-day. 

God,  in  his  good  time,  will  send  us 

Blessed  comfort  from  above  : 
He  who  wept  o'er  Lazarus  sleeping 

Looks  on  us  with  pitying  love. 
Little  lamb,  in  Jesus'  keeping, 

Christ  himself  hath  called  away  ; 
Heavenly  Shepherd,  gently,  gently, 

Guide  our  little  lamb  to-day. 


MRS.   C.  E.  E.  PARKEE.  267 


NIGHT. 

'Tis  holy  night !     The  stars  are  out 
Upon  their  watches,  far  on  high  ; 
The  moon's  slight  shell  upon  the  edge 
Of  the  horizon's  verge  doth  lie, 
Looking  a  fair  "  good  night"  to  me 
Who  watch  her  course  thus  silently  ! 

'Tis  holy  night !     The  moon  hath  gone, 
With  timid  steps,  to  seek  her  lord  : 
The  sun  her  master  is  ;  and  she, 
Ever,  with  loving,  sweet  accord, 
Through  night  and  day,  doth  follow  him, 
Lest  her  pale  light  should  grow  more  dim. 

'Tis  holy  night !     God  grant  that  I 

A  lesson  from  its  page  may  borrow : 

Just  like  the  moon,  through  night  and  day, 

Through  present  joy  and  coming  sorrow, 

May  I,  with  meek  and  lowly  heart, 

Follow  my  Lord  with  trusting  love  ; 

Keeping  an  eye,  undimmed  and  clear, 

Upon  his  glory  far  above  ; 

Knowing,  like  her,  more  and  more  dim 

My  light  and  life,  if  far  from  him  ! 


MRS.   ADELAIDE    E.   M.   PARKER. 


THE  BENIGHTED  TRAVELLER. 

EARILY  the  day  has  passed, 
Drearily  night  comes  at  last, 
While,  upon  the  driving  blast, 

Driveth  on  the  snow  : 
Faster  now  the  day  declines  ; 
And  the  piercing  winter-winds 
Whistle  through  the  moaning  pines 
In  the  vale  below. 


Down  the  mountains  whirls  the  snow  ; 
And  the  torrent  there  below 
Rushes  on  with  thundering  flow 

To  its  deeper  bed, 
Gathering,  as  it  speeds,  new  force  ; 
Bearing  in  its  headlong  course, 
From  its  distant,  hidden  source, 

Leaves  all  brown  and  dead. 


Now  the  darkness  doth  efface 
From  the  wild  scene  every  trace, 
Till,  in  seeming  endless  space, 

Falleth  on  the  ear, 


MBS.  ADELAIDE  E.  M.  PARKER.  269 

'Mid  the  torrent's  awful  roar, 
Thunders  from  the  wave-lashed  shore  ; 
And  the  winds  wail  evermore, 

Shrieking  as  in  fear. 


Now  the  tempest  gains  in  might ; 
Deeper,  blacker  grows  the  night ; 
Blustering  on,  from  height  to  height, 

Faster  falls  the  snow  : 
Feebly  struggling  'gainst  despair 
And  the  fast  benumbing  air, 
Gropes  along  a  traveller  there 

From  the  pass  below. 


Fast  around  him  drifts  the  snow, 

Keener  still  the  air  doth  grow, 

Still  more  fierce  the  wind  doth  blow : 

Only  Heaven  can  save. 
Life  is  ebbing  fast  away, 
Death  is  waiting  there  his  prey, 
And  at  dawn  the  snow  will  lay 

Around  him  for  a  grave. 


Now,  far-off  amidst  the  hills, 

As  rapidly  his  life-blood  chills, 

He  hears  a  sudden  sound  which  thrills 

Through  his  heart  and  brain  ; 
Pausing  with  his  ear  bent  low, 
Till  his  cold  cheek  meets  the  snow, 
Mingling  with  the  torrent's  flow, 

Hark  !  the  sound  asrain  ! 


270  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Surely  'twas  a  watch-clog's  bai'k  !  — 
Suddenly  he  sees  a  spark 
Faintly  glimmer  through  the  dark, 

Up  the  ix>cky  way. 
Hope  rekindles  at  the  sight ; 
But  his  strength  has  failed  him  quite, 
And,  along  the  slippery  height, 

Faint  and  stiff'  he  lay, 


Till  a  something  snuffing  round, 
Pawing  on  the  frozen  ground, 
Uttering  a  strange  wild  sound, 

Rouses  him  with  fear. 
But  the  shaggy  creature  there, 
Trained  to  brave  the  mountain  air, 
Trained  to  rescue  from  despair, 

Tells  that  aid  is  near. 


Soon,  with  cordials  and  with  light, 
From  the  convent  on  the  height, 
Come  three  brethren  through  the  night, 

Guided  by  the  sound 
Uttered  by  the  dog  below  ; 
And  they  hurry  through  the  snow, 
Scarcely  heeding  where  they  go, 

So  the  spot  be  found. 


Then  they  bear  the  fainting  frame 
Up  the  rugged  way  they  came, 
Praying  in  Christ's  holy  name 

Life  might  be  retained  ; 


MRS.  ADELAIDE  E.  M.  PARKER.  271 

And  that  earnest,  heart-felt  prayer, 
Breathed  upon  the  frozen  air, 
In  the  depth  of  midnight  there, 

Speedy  answer  gained. 


A     PRAYER. 

FATHER,  I  have  wandered  far  ; 
Oh  !  be  now  my  guiding  star  ; 
Draw  my  footsteps  back  to  thee  ; 
Set  my  struggling  spirit  free  ! 
Save  me  from  the  doubts  that  roll 
O'er  the  chaos  of  my  soul ; 
Let  one  ray  of  truth  illume 
And  dispel  the  thickening  gloom  ! 
God  of  truth  and  peace  and  love, 

Hear  my  prayer ! 
Draw  my  restless  thoughts  above  ; 

Keep  them  there  ! 

Father,  save  me,  at  this  hour, 

From  the  tempter's  fearful  power  ; 

Purify  the  hidden  springs 

Of  my  wild  imaginings  ! 

I  have  thought  till  thought  is  pain,  — 

Searched  for  peace  till  search  is  vain  ; 

Out  of  thee  I  cannot  find 

Rest  for  the  immortal  mind. 

Now  I  come  to  thee  for  aid  : 

Peace  restore  ! 
Let  my  soul  on  thee  be  stayed 

For  evermore ! 


272  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   VAGARIES   OF  A  DREAM. 

I  KNOW  not  how  it  was,  —  I  seemed 

In  a  frail  bark,  far  out  at  sea, 
Where  the  hot  sunbeams  fiercely  streamed, 

And  the  whole  ocean  seemed  to  be 
Stagnant  and  slimy.     I  could  see 

No  sign  of  life  to  which  to  cling : 
In  that  almost  infinity 

I  was  the  only  living  thing. 


Alone,  and  fixed  in  mute  despair, — 

No  hope,  no  thought,  my  life  to  save  ; 
I  floated  on,  I  knew  not  where, — 

To  this  no  single  thought  I  gave  ; 
But  rapidly  I  skimmed  the  wave  : 

There  was  no  breath  to  aid  me,  none  ; 
All  was  quiet  as  the  grave, 

And  yet  I  still  kept  floating  on. 


I  had  no  power  to  judge  or  mark 

The  space  I  passed,  the  course  I  sped  ; 
For,  ever  high  above  that  bark, 

The  sun  was  fixed  all  fiery  red. 
It  fell  on  my  unsheltered  head  ; 

I  felt  it  burning  through  my  brain 
Like  a  swift  stream  of  molten  lead  : 

Madly  and  loud  I  shrieked  with  pain. 


MBS.  ADELAIDE  E.  M.   PARKER.  273 

This  was  the  first  sound  I  had  made  : 

I  had  no  feeling  until  now  ; 
But  all  earth's  waters,  all  its  shade, 

Would  not  have  cooled  my  burning  brow  : 
And,  horrid  sight !  around  the  prow, 

As  if  suspended  in  the  air, 
Serpents  with  human  heads  did  bow, 

Waiting  to  dart  upon  me  there. 


But  suddenly  a  monstrous  bird 

Rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  deep  : 
The  flapping  of  his  wings  I  heard, 

And  saw  him  round  and  round  me  sweep, 
Till,  with  a  sure  and  rapid  leap, 

He  fixed  his  talons  in  my  hair  ; 
And,  as  the  serpents  nearer  creep, 

He  bore  me  darting  through  the  air. 


Away  he  swept,  I  knew  not  where  ; 

But  high  he  soared,  and  ever  higher  : 
At  length  I  caught  a  sudden  glare, 

As  if  a  world  were  all  on  fire  ; 
And  here  and  there  a  glittering  spire, 

Shooting  unto  the  zenith's  height, 
Made  other  paler  ones  retire 

Like  phantoms  vanishing  from  sight. 


And  all  around  one  silent  scene 
Of  sparkling  and  unsullied  snow  ; 

Ice-mountains  stood,  as  they  had  been 
Wratchers  since  ages  long  ago, 
18 


274  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

O'erlooking  all  the  world  below  ; 

And,  from  each  pointed  glittering  height, 
Reflecting  all  the  solemn  glow 

That  luminates  the  polar  night. 


No  object  could  a  shadow  fling, 

All  was  so  bright  above,  around  ; 
But  'twas  a  painful,  fearful  thing 

To  see  no  life,  to  hear  no  sound, 
To  feel  a  silence  so  profound, 

And  know  that  thus  the  scene  would  be 
Waiting,  in  this  same  stillness  bound, 

The  dawning  of  Eternity. 


Above  this  frozen,  silent  scene, 

This  brilliant,  ever-changing  glow, 
With  not  a  single  cloud  beneath 

Me,  and  the  salient  fires  below, 
He  loosed  his  hold,  he  let  me  go  ; 

The  stillness  of  the  scene  it  broke  ; 
I  heard  a  rushing  sound  below, 

I  shuddered,  started,  and  —  awoke. 


MRS.  ADELAIDE  E.  M.   PARKER.  275 


THE   DIVINE   COMFORTER. 

Wanderer. 

I  WALK  amidst  the  darkness  that  surrounds  me, 
Like  a  pale  speclre  through  the  shades  of  night : 

The  shadows  deepen,  and  the  storm  is  gathering ; 
One  only  star  emits  a  glimmering  light. 


Daylight  has  vanished  ;  and  the  night,  increasing, 
Has  round  my  pathway  every  terror  thrown,  — 

Obscured  each  trusted  landmark ;  and  in  darkness 
I  wander  on,  uncertain  and  alone. 


The  way  grows  rougher,  and  my  limbs  are  weary  ; 

My  eyes  are  heavy,  and  my  heart  opprest : 
Must  I,  my  Father,  perish  here  in  darkness? 

Here,  midst  these  terrors,  must  I  sink  to  rest? 


Aid  me,  my  Father !  Let  thy  powerful  hand 
Scatter  the  darkness,  and  my  strength  renew ! 

Give  me  the  courage  still  to  struggle  onward, 
Until  the  dawn  shall  break  upon  my  view  ! 


The  Divine  Comforter. 

Child,  when  thou  thinkest  I  am  far  from  thee  ; 

When  faith  and  hope  have  ceased  to  be  thy  guide  ; 
When  thou  no  shelter  and  no  aid  canst  see, — 

Then  is  it  I  am  ever  by  thy  side. 


276  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

v 

And  when  them  thinkest  almost  all  is  lost, 
That  nothing  more  on  earth  remains  to  thee, 

Then  art  thou  in  the  way  to  merit  most ; 

Though,  in  thy  blindness,  this  thou  canst  not  see. 


Then  trust  to  me,  and  let  thy  fears  away  ; 

Walk  in  the  darkness  as  in  daylight  sure  : 
Did  I  but  will  it,  it  would  now  be  day  : 

'Tis  not  my  will,  —  then  patiently  endure. 


SONG. 

I  WATCH  in  vain  ! 
When  the  morning  breaks, 
The  hope  of  my  heart  with  the  day  awakes  ; 
But  it  dies  away 
At  the  close  of  day. 
Oh  !  I  watch  in  vain, 
Alone  in  silence,  in  tears  and  pain, 
For  a  gleam  of  his  sail  on  the  waves  again  ! 


I  watch  in  vain  ! 
On  this  rocky  height 

I  weep  through  the  long  and  the  silent  night, 
When  the  storms  are  out, 
And  the  winds  about ; 
But  I  watch  in  vain, 

With  an  aching  heart  and  a  burning  brain, 
For  a  gleam  of  his  sails  on  the  waves  again  ! 


MRS.   ADELAIDE  E.   M.  PARKER.  211 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

LIKE  night-blooming  flowers,  which,  in  darkness  and 

dews, 

Expand  into  beauty,  and  perfume  the  air 
With  odors,  that  startle  the  senses,  and  throw 
A  charm  over  earth  of  which  day  might  despair ; 
So  we,  who  have  bloomed  in  the  night  of  neglect,  — 
A  night  long  and  dark,  —  and  whose  dew  has  been 

tears, 

May  shine  with  a  lustre  which  ever  shall  gild 
The  gloom  with  which  fate  has  surrounded  our  years. 

• 
And  as  some  will  remember,  when  daylight  returns, 

The  fragrance  that  sweetened  their  vigils  of  gloom, 

And  treasure  for  ever  the  flowerets  that  thus, 

In  darkness  and  silence,  so  humbly  could  bloom  ; 

So  patiently  \vait ;  and  hereafter,  when  ive 

Are   gathered  from   earth,  like   these   night-blooming 

flowers, 

Our  memory  to  some  may  a  talisman  prove 
To  lighten  the  gloom  of  their  desolate  hours. 


AURIN     M.     PAT  SON. 


SEDES   MUSARUM. 


F  them  wouldst  love  to  strike  the  lyre, 
And  wake  the  choral  song  of  heaven, 
Believe  not  inspiration's  fire 
Burns  brightest  at  the  dusk  of  even. 


But  haste  to  where  the  laurels  bend 
Their  graceful  boughs  at  morning  dawn, 
And  Nature's  voices  sweetly  blend 
In  joyous  music  o'er  the  lawn. 

In  whispering  branches  o'er  thy  head, 
And  laughing  brooks  beneath  thy  feet, 
Around  the  graves  of  hallowed  dead, 
The  sacred  Muses  hold  their  seat. 

On  hill-tops  and  in  grottos  green  ; 
Amid  the  strife  of  tempests  dire  ; 
Or  where  we  watch  the  nightly  queen, 
Whose  silver  light  sweet  thoughts  inspire  ; 


AURIN  M.   PAYSON.  279 

Amid  lone  silence,  deep,  profound  ; 
Up  \vhere  no  creature's  foot  hath  trod, 
Or  voice  was  ever  heard  to  sound 
On  mountain-peak,  but  that  of  God  ! 

Within  the  halls  of  Memory,  too, 
Where  legends  of  the  past  are  hung  ; 
And  o'er  whose  tablets,  waiting  you, 
Are  gems  of  beauty  loosely  flung ; 

In  pattering  rain-drops  on  the  towers  ; 
The  heaving  ocean's  low  bass-tone  ; 
Beneath  the  grass,  'mid  tiny  flowers  ; 
The  sighing  zephyr's  gentle  moan  ; 

Along  Piscataqua's  sunny  shore, 
Where  sweeps  the  deep  resistless  tide,  — 
Their  echoes  answer,  evermore 
Down  toward  eternity  we  glide  ! 

Out  on  those  dark  sequestered  strands, 
When  forms  were  transformed  into  ghosts 
In  years  long  past,  bright  laurelled  bands 
Of  Muses  strolled  along  the  coasts. 

Could  some  clear  panoramic  view 
Of  dusky  olden  time  be  given, 
And  scenes  of  centuries  lost  renew, 
Beneath  this  deep  blue  vault  of  heaven, 

Perhaps  those  spirit-forms  might  noiv , 
All  floating  toward  the  dark-blue  sea, 
Be  seen,  with  garlands  on  their  brow, 
Waking  the  harp's  sweet  minstrelsy. 


280  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   SUFFERING  POOR. 

I  saw  just  before  me,  on  the  street,  a  poor  fellow  thinly  clad,  shivering  with 
the  cold,  and  his  feet  almost  destitute  of  covering,  just  as  the  storm  was  coming 
on.  —  January,  1856. 

LIST  !  as  the  chill  winds  blow, 
And  force  the  drifting  snow, 

How  sad  they  moan  ! 
Hear  in  their  mournful  wail, 
Sweeping  along  his  trail, 

The  poor  man's  groan  ! 

Let's  hasten  down  the  street, 
And  mark  well  where  his  feet 

Trace  out  his  home. 
To-morrow  may  too  late 
Reveal  his  wretched  fate,  — 

Death  and  the  tomb  ! 

My  friend,  whose  manly  form 
Bore  down  the  opposing  storm, 

Quick  led  the  way. 
There,  near  the  beating  tide, 
That  home  we  soon  descried 

In  deep  dismay. 

We  enter  first  the  hall, 
(If  such  we  may  it  call), 

And  pause  for  breath. 
Hark  !  hear  that  suppliant's  tone, 
Uprising  toward  His  throne 

Who  succors  e'en  in  death  ! 


AUBIN  M.  PAYSON.  281 

And  hear  him  pray,  "  God,  save 
From  hastening  to  the  grave 

My  child  and  wife  ! 
Send  some  kind  hand  with  aid, 
Let  this  distress  be  stayed, 

Nor  take  my  life  ! 

Oh  spare  the  suffering  poor, 
Who,  prostrate  at  thy  door 

Of  mercy,  call ! 
Oh  help  in  this  our  need, 
And  let  thy  blessing  speed, 

And  on  us  fall !  " 

God  heard  that  upborne  prayer : 
It  seemed  the  very  air 

Had  felt  the  thrill ! 
We  found  upon  the  floor, 
Kneeling,  the  starving  poor  !  — 

That  room  how  chill ! 

No  light,  no  wood,  no  bread, 
By  which  they  could  be  fed 

Or  warmed  or  cheered  : 
We  bade  them  hope  and  wait, 
Then  hasted  from  the  gate, 

For  worse  we  feared. 

So,  fast  from  friend  to  friend, 
Our  hurried  steps  did  bend, 

And  found  relief: 
Good  food,  a  generous  store, 
With  wood  and  oil,  we  bore, 

And  stayed  their  grief. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Go,  then,  whoe'er  ye  be 
That  live  in  luxury, 

Go,  bless  the  poor : 
Turn  not  in  proud  disdain 
From  suffering  and  pain, 

When  at  your  door  ! 

There  is  a  mind  that  knows 
Each  mite  you  give  to  those 

In  want  or  woe  : 
A  cup  of  water  given 
May  wake  the  smile  of  Heaven  : 

Your  bread  bestow  ! 

Then  He,  by  whose  command 
The  wide  extended  land 

Its  fruitage  yields, 
Will  pay  in  hundred-fold 
Your  sacrifice  of  gold, 

Through  all  your  fields. 

Nay,  more,  —  beyond  the  sky, 
Each  prayer,  each  burdened  sigh, 

Will  plead  anew ; 
And,  at  Heaven's  mercy-gate, 
Angelic  guards  will  wait 

To  welcome  you  ! 


AURIN  M.  PAYSON.  283 


THE   CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON. 
From  the  Prose  of  Phillips. 

AT  last,  the  viclor  Death  has  found  the  room 
Where  lay  the  Hero,  waiting  for  the  tomb  : 

His  "  sweet  repose  "  is  sung. 
Now  pause  before  that  prodigy  of  might, 
Which,  like  some  ancient  tower's  giddy  height, 

In  ruins  o'er  us  hung  ! 

Exalted  on  a  throne,  in  gloomy  grandeur  sat 
This  sceptred  hermit,  wielding  o'er  the  State 

His  awful  magic  wand  : 
A  mind  decisive,  unrestrained,  and  bold  ; 
A  will  despotic,  all  his  acts  controlled  ; 

Of  martial  glory  fond. 

A  conscience,  too,  like  steel  to  interest  bent, 
Distinct  to  shade,  her  finer  pencils  lent 

The  extraordina'ry  man. 
A  stranger  at  his  birth,  flung  into  life 
Amidst  a  people  maddened  into  strife, 

Dependent  he  began. 

With  sword  and  talents,  these  his  only  friend, 
'Gainst  rank  and  wealth  and  genius  to  defend 

His  hopes  of  future  fame  ; 
His  potent  arm,  all  competition  fled, 
As  from  the  glance  of  fate,  and  honor  shed 

Around  the  victor's  name. 


284  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

By  interest  moved,  success  inspired  his  breast ; 
His  god  ambition,  there  he  made  request 

In  that  proud  idol's  fane  : 

All  creeds  professed,  and  favor  thus  would  court ; 
For  thrones  and  crowns  the  crescent  he'd  support, 

Hope's  lofty  height  to  gain. 

To  win  divorce,  beneath  the  cross  he'd  fall ; 
St.  Louis'  orphan,  ready  at  his  call, 

The  State  relief  would  bring  : 
And  yet,  with  parricidal  hand,  he  rent 
The  throne  and  tribune,  with  the  full  intent 

To  make  himself  the  king. 

The  Roman  faith  professed,  the  Pope  he  bound  ; 
The  country  soon  in  poverty  was  found, 

Confiding  in  his  care  : 

In  Brutus'  name,  he,  bold  without  remorse, 
The  crown  of  Caesar  grasped  ;  and,  what  is  worse, 

No  shame  his  heart  would  share  ! 

t 

To  all  his  whims,  proud  fortune  played  the  clown  ; 
Since  beggars  he  set  up,  and  kings  threw  down, 

And  systems  came  and  went : 

Now  victory  crowned  his  march,  sometimes  defeat ; 
And  yet  his  z7/-success  oft  made  him  great, 

And  gave  his  power  extent. 

Though  fortune  great,  his  genius  rose  sublime  ; 
Decisive  words  he  spake  ;  and,  prompt  in  time, 

The  deed,  the  work,  was  done  ! 
Those  smaller  minds,  not  competent  to  scan 
Such  combinations,  his  own  well-wrought  plan 

Bewildered  ere  begun ! 


AURIN  M.  PAYSON.  285 

But,  in  his  might,  his  hand  the  action  pressed, 
And  quick  success  oft  proved  his  wisdom  best ; 

His  will  obeyed,  'twas  done  ! 
So,  like  his  mind,  his  constitution  lost 
No  strength  against  the  rain  and  polar  frost, 

Nor  'neath  a  torrid  sun  ! 

'Mid  Alpine  rocks  or  on  Arabia's  plain, 

His  nature  ne'er  would  yield  ;  with  proud  disdain, 

He'd  tread  opposers  down  ; 
And  trembling  States,  beholding  his  designs, 
Would  move  their  rulers,  by  some  timely  signs, 

To  offer  up  their  crown  ! 

When  he  performed,  past  prodigies  were  dumb  ; 
Romance  was  history  :  what,  then,  could  become 

A  check  upon  his  path, 
When,  o'er  her  ancient  capitals  displayed, 
The  dark  imperial  flag,  the  world  dismayed, 

Once  saw  in  sullen  wrath  ! 

All  visions  of  past  ages  soon  became,  «• 

In  his  proud  thought,  but  commonplace,  the  same 

His  flashing  mind  composed  ! 
And  kings  his  people  were  ;  and  nations,  scouts : 
Of  courts  and  crowns  and  kingdoms  on  his  routes, 

With  ease  he  oft  disposed  ! 

Amid  all  changes,  undisturbed  he  stood, 
With  mobs,  levees,  or  in  the  field  of  blood, 

Or  in  the  drawing-room  ; 
Though  bonnet  of  a  Jacobin  he  chose, 
Or  iron  crown,  o'er  every  hope  arose 

That  same  despotic  gloom  ! 


286  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

The  jailer  of  the  press,  yet  friendly  then, 
As  patron  of  the  arts  and  learned  men  ; 

But  cruel  as  the  grave 

To  Palm,  De  Stael,  who  crossed  the  despot's  way ; 
While  David's  art,  and  others  'neath  his  sway, 

High  patronage  he  gave. 

Without  a  model  yet,  a  shadow  none, 

Complex,  consistent  self,  he  stood  alone,  « 

Subaltern,  sovereign  king ! 
Such  medley,  too,  of  contradictions  he, 
To  God  or  Reason's  shrine,  he'd  make  a  plea, 

And  there  his  offerings  bring  ! 

O  earthly  fame  !  how  fading,  yet  how  fair  ! 
Delusive  phantom,  bubble  of  the  air, 

Thou  cheat'st  the  soul  of  bliss  ! 

Man,  flushed  with  pride,  devotes  time's  fleeting  hours 
In  search  of  fancied  good,  and  wastes  his  powers 

On  such  a  world  as  this ! 


THE   PULSE   OF  FREEDOM. 
1861. 

WHEN  the  first  torch  had  lighted  the  fires  on  his  path, 
And  the  war-god  had  mustered  his  hosts  in  his  wrath, 
O'er  the  hills,  through  the  vales,  Freedom's  quick 

blood  was  stirred, 
As  the  deep-toned  responses  from  Sumpter  were  heard  ! 


AURIN  M.  PAYSON.  287 

Then  the  pulse  of  true  liberty  beat  quicker  far 
Than  the  steam-pulse  that  forces  the  swift-moving  car  ; 
And  the  shout  of  defiance,  on  that  fearful  morn, 
Rang  with  "  Strike  for  the  Union,"  from  curled  lips  of 
scorn  ! 

Soon  the  cry  rent  the  air  from  the  workshop  and  field, 
And  from  rich  homes  of  ease,  "  To  the  foe  never  yield  ! 
Sooner  die  'neath  our  flag,  on  the  land,  on  the  sea  ; 
Be  our  watchword  for  ever,  '  Our  country  is  free  ! ' ' 

Forth  there  flashed  o'er  the  wires  an  appeal  from  the 

State 

To  the  brave,  to  deliver  their  homes  from  a  fate 
Far  more  dreadful  than  death,  on  the  proud  field  of 

fame, 
In  a  contest  for  freedom,  in  God's  sacred  name  ! 

As  the  dark  clouds  come  slowly,  foretokening  a  night 
Full  of  tempests,  whose  thunders  e'en   stout   hearts 

affright ; 

So  the  brave  hosts  of  freemen,  more  direful  than  storm, 
At  the  call  of  their  country,  in  deep  columns  form  ! 

They  had  armor,  equipments,  with  spirits  elate, 
That  would  grace  a  king's  guard,  as  they  move  from 

his  gate  ; 
But  of  drill  they  had  none,  for  sweet  peace  through 

the  land 
Had  long  lulled  to  repose  every  disciplined  band. 

Why  were  they  then  so  fearful  in  power  and  in  might, 
That  the  nation's  cheek  crimsoned  with  pride  at  the 
sight? 


288 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


'Twas  because  they  were  freemen,  resolved  to  defend, 
Each  his  altar  and  hearth-stone,  or  die  in  the  end  ! 

Oh  beware  !  then,  ye  tyrants,  nor  trifle  with  men 
Who  inherit  their  freedom,  on  hill,  plain,  or  glen  ; 
For  at  last  they  must  conquer,  —  the  world  must  be 

free, 
And  humanity's  triumphs  oppressors  shall  see  ! 

Then  the  star-spangled  banner   shall  wave   o'er  the 

State, 

Far  aloft,  and  defiant  to  oppression  and  hate, 
Till  the  down-trodden  millions  shall  suffer  no  wrong, 
And   proclaim    their   redemption,    though   baffled    so 

long ! 


EDWARD   A.    RAND. 


PON  D-L  I  L  I  E  S. 

s 

LL  through  the  day  the  lilies  float, 

Swayed  gently  by  the  drowsy  streams, 
As  tired  thoughts  in  sleep  obey 

The  changing  impulse  of  our  dreams. 


Through  waters  dead,  who  thought  such  life 
Was  creeping  up  the  tangled  stems, 

To  burst  in  bloom  of  snow  and  gold, 
And  sprinkle  wide  those  floral  gems? 

In  those  dark  depths,  who  thought  such  light 
In  folded  bud  was  thus  concealed, 

To  open  into  stars,  with  rays 

As  pure  as  those  by  night  revealed  ? 

Take  heart,  faint  soul !  and  stay  the  grief 
In  whose  sad  presence  man  e'er  weeps  : 

Up  through  life's  dark  and  shaded  depths 
Some  bloom  of  beauty  ever  creeps. 

Some  rays  of  light,  in  darkness  hid, 
Wait  God's  appointed,  better  time, 

To  break  in  stars  whose  peaceful  beams 
Shall  round  our  darkened  pathway  shine. 
19 


290  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


RAIN  ON  THE   ROOF. 

Is  that  a  step  upon  the  stairs, 

That  makes  its  echo  in  the  night? 

Not  that:  the  rain  is  creeping  down  the  roof; 
I  hear  its  footfall  hushed  and  light. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  I  seemed 

To  hear  soft  footsteps  on  the  stairs : 

I've  fancied  so  before,  and  e'en 
Amid  the  silence  of  my  prayers. 

I  cannot  see,  but  fancy  still 

My  sainted  child  looks  in  my  face, 

And  think  the  shadow  of  a  wing 

Makes  heavenly  twilight  in  the  place. 

How  oft  within  her  eyes'  blue  depths 
I  looked,  as  down  some  shaded  aisle 

That  into  Heaven  ran  afar : 
God  only  let  me  look  awhile  ! 

The  bitter  rain  has  dripped  but  twice 

Since  last  I  heard  her  little  feet 
Drop  music  all  adown  the  stairs  : 

And  now  —  they  press  the  golden  street. 

Such  music  as  the  raindrops  make, 
Those  passing  feet  made  every  day  : 

One  eve  they  stopped,  and  then  I  knew 
That  they  had  climbed  the  heavenly  way. 


EDWARD  A.  BAND.  291 


WAITING. 

THIS  wind  that  cools  my  burning  brow, 
What  soothing  peace  it  brings  ! 

As  if  this  summer-air  were  stirred 
By  countless  angel-wings. 

It  is  not  strange,  this  golden  light 

That  plays  about  my  head  : 
Are  not  the  angels  of  the  Lord 

Encamped  around  my  bed  ? 

All  through  these  days  that  tarry  long, 
These  nights  of  pain,  I  wait : 

I  only  wait  a  little  while 
The  opening  of  the  gate. 

At  night,  my  pillow,  hard  and  rough, 

A  peaceful  Bethel  seems  : 
I  sleep,  yet  only  sleep  to  watch 

The  angels  in  my  dreams. 

They  flash  along  this  heavenly  way, 

As  if,  to  Heaven's  door, 
A  vine  had  climbed  up  through  the  sky, 

And  white-winged  blossoms  bore. 

So  now  I  know  my  home  is  near, 

That  I  am  near  the  gate  : 
I  only  fold  my  hands  in  prayer, 

Then  knock,  and  knocking  —  ivait ! 


292  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


PEACE. 

PEACE  on  the  calm,  blue  western  sea, 
And  in  the  calm,  soft  Autumn  sky  ; 

And  peace  within  the  heart  of  pain 
That  lays  its  heavy  sorrow  by. 

And  yet  how  slow  we  are  to  learn, 
That  in  the  daily,  changing  life, 

The  fullest  peace  must  follow  pain, 
As  calm  the  storm,  and  rest  our  strife  ! 

Our  knowledge  comes  from  opposites, 
And  gain  of  tearful  loss  is  born, 

And  rest  is  known  through  weariness : 
The  haven's  shelter  follows  storm. 

Each  day's  contentment  is  not  peace  : 
Our  song  will  never  turn  to  psalm, 

Till  feet  that  press  the  bars  of  pain 
Shall  feel  the  Master's  soothing  balm. 

For  him  who  suffering  ne'er  has  known, 

There  is  a  joy  not  yet  begun  ; 
Who,  finding  Christ  within  the  storm, 

Shall  come  out  in  the  morning  sun. 

Oh,  peace  from  Christ,  sweet  end  of  pain  ! 

We  welcome  all  that  brings  alarm, 
If,  after  troubled  waves,  we  reach 

The  soul's  eternal,  heavenly  calm  ! 


EDWARD  A.   RAND.          <  293 


THE    MIST. 

THE  mist  is  coming  in  from  the  sea, 

As  white  as  the  shelving  sand  ; 
Some  huge  sea-bird  hath  spread  its  wings 
To  hide  the  rock-ribbed  land. 

The  mist  is  coming  in  from  the  sea, 

As  cold  as  the  waves  below  : 
So  white,  so  cold  ;  and  can  it  be 

The  white  December  snow? 

O  mist !  why  lie  so  white  and  so  cold, 

So  still  in  the  Autumn  night? 
Wouldst  deck  with  bridal  veil  the  moon 

That  casts  such  ghastly  light? 

Not  that,  not  that,  —  a  shroud  for  the  ship 

That  sinks  in  the  bay  below  ! 
Ah,  me  !  I  would  that  this  had  been 

The  white  December  snow  ! 


GONE. 

I  MISS  the  hand  that  pointed  out 
A  heaven  of  rest  from  care  ; 

And  yet,  if  here,  my  soul  would  lose 
The  hand  that  leads  it  there. 


294  •    POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  miss  the  smile  whose  constant  light 
Made  bright  each  clouded  place  ; 

And  yet,  if  here,  my  dreams  by  night 
Would  want  one  sainted  face. 

I  miss  the  form  whose  shadow  fell 
Like  sunshine  on  the  floor ; 

And  yet,  if  here,  one  angel  less 
Would  hover  round  my  door. 


y  O NA  THA  N    M.     SB  WA  L  L. 


BOEX  ix  1748  ;  DIED  ix  1808. 


THE   TRANSFIGURATION. 

HEN   took   he  with  him  Peter,  James,   and 

John 

(His  three  disciples),  to  a  mount  alone  ; 
And  suddenly,  ere  they  distinctly  knew, 
He  stood  transfigured  to  their  wondering  view. 
His  face  was  radiant  as  the  mid-day  sun, 
And,  whiter  than  the  light,  his  lucid  raiment  shone. 
Lo  !  Moses,  and  Elias  too,  revealed 
Celestial  colloquy  with  Jesus  held. 
The  wondering  three,  lost  in  the  effulgence  bright, 
Stood  gazing  with  ineffable  delight, 
Till  Peter,  ever  zealous  'bove  the  rest, 
His  Lord  and  Master  ardent  thus  addressed  : 


"  'Tis  good  for  thy  disciples  to  be  here  ! 
Let  us  three  tabernacles  instant  rear  ; 
And  each  a  solemn  sanctuary  be 
For  Moses  and  Elias  and  for  THEE  !  " 

While  thus  he  spake  (scarce  knowing  what  he  said). 
A  bright  o'ershadowing  cloud  the  mount  o'erspread  ; 
And,  from  amidst  the  brightness  that  appeared, 
These  solemn  accents  audibly  were  heard  : 


296  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

"  This  is  my  SON  BELOVED  !  in  whom  alone 

I  am  well  pleased  :  hear  him,  and  reverent  own  !  " 

A  secret  terror  through  each  bosom  spread  ; 
And  all  fell  prostrate,  wrapt  in  holy  dread  ! 
Till  Jesus,  with  compassion  moved,  drew  near, 
And  touching,  raised  them,  and  dispelled  each  fear, 
Forbidding  them  the  vision  to  disclose 
Till  from  the  dead  the  SON  OF  MAN  arose. 

But  we've  a  surer  word  of  Prophecy, 
Which  we  do  well  to  mark  with  heedful  eye, 
As  a  celestial,  all-disclosing  light, 
Refulgent  beaming  through  the  shades  of  night ; 
Till,  in  each  heart,  this  DAY-STAR  of  the  skies 
With  inextinguishable  splendor  rise. 
For  PROPHECY  came  not  of  old  by  man 
(Whate'er  blaspheming  infidels  maintain)  ; 
But  godly  men,  for  sanclity  approved, 
Spake  as  the  Holy  Ghost  impulsive  moved. 
The  irrevocable  word  no  power  repeals  ; 
Unerring  Wisdom  stamps,  Omniscience  seals, 
And  uncontrolled  Omnipotence  fulfils. 


EXTRACT   FROM   "EPILOGUE   TO    CATO." 

RISE  then,  my  countrymen  !  for  fight  prepare, 
Gird  on  your  swords,  and  fearless  rush  to  war ! 
For  your  grieved  country  nobly  dare  to  die, 
And  empty  all  your  veins  for  LIBERTY. 
No  pent-up  Utica  contracts  your  powers, 
But  the  whole  boundless  continent  is  yours. 


JONATHAN  M.   SEW  ALL.  297 


ON  THE  GLOOMY  PROSPECTS   OF   1776. 

CANST  thou,  by  searching,  the  Omniscient  find, 
Or  to  perfection  scan  the  Eternal  Mind? 
Vain  aim!  —  its  height  the  heaven  of  heavens  trans 
cends, 

Deeper  than  hell  the  unfathomed  line  descends  ! 
'Tis  longer  than  the  earth's  unmeasured  plain, 
And  broader  than  the  illimitable  main. 

If  He,  in  wrath,  shut  up  a  guilty  land, 
Or  fierce  consume  them  with  his  red  right  hand  ; 
Humbled  in  dust  beneath  Almighty  power, 
Trembling  they  groan,  bow  prostrate,  and  adore  : 
Then,  touched  with  pity,  he  their  prayer  receives, 
Repents  him  of  the  evil,  and  forgives. 

Thus  oft  doth  God :  what  power  can  stay  his  hand  ? 
Who  his  fixed  counsels  question  or  withstand? 
He  knows,  vain  man  !  no  thought  escapes  his  eyes  ; 
And  canst  thou  stand,  if  wrath  eternal  rise? 
Yet  dares  proud  dust  presumptuously  revolt, 
To  folly  born,  like  the  wild  ass's  colt. 

Oh,  then  learn  wisdom,  much-enduring  land  ! 
Implore  thy  God  to  stay  his  wasting  hand  ! 
He'll  not  be  deaf,  if  humbly  thou  prepare 
Thine  heart,  and  stretch  thy  hands  in  fervent  prayer. 
If  in  them  wrath  or  wickedness  be  found, 
If  fraud,  extortion,  violence,  abound, 
Far,  far  remove  them  ;  let  no  guilty  stain 
The  tabernacle  of  thy  God  profane. 
To  him  with  filial  confidence  repair  : 
He'll  lift  thee  up,  nor  suffer  thee  to  fear. 


298  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Thy  miseries  shall  be  all  forgot,  or  seem 

Like  gliding  waters  or  an  empty  dream. 

Then  shall  thy  light  be  as  the  morning  ray, 

Thine  age  more  glorious  than  meridian  day  ; 

Confirmed  by  hope,  thy  terrors  all  shall  cease  ; 

And,  'midst  contending  worlds,  thou  shalt  have  peace. 

Thy  sons,  reposing  in  Almighty  aid, 

Shall  dwell  securely,  none  to  make  afraid. 

Before  thee,  Britain  shall  abashed  retire, 

And  mightiest  nations  deprecate  thine  ire  ; 

Thy  favor  court,  from  thy  just  vengeance  flee  ; 

And,  for  their  great  example,  copy  thee. 

Resembling  in  thy  morals,  laws,  police, 

The  glorious  kingdom  of  the  PRINCE  OF  PEACE. 

Then  faith  shall  triumph,  envy  rave  in  vain  ; 

Oppression  tremble,  slavery  drop  her  chain  ; 

To  law,  proud  rapine,  fraud  to  justice,  yield  ; 

Fierce  discord  raging  bathe  no  more  the  field  ; 

But  perfect  love,  joy,  harmony,  and  peace 

Crown  thy  millennium  with  transcendent  bliss. 


PARAPHRASE  ON  THE  LAST  CHAPTER  OF 
ECCLESIASTES. 

WHILE  life's  warm  current  revels  in  each  vein, 
And  youth,  health,  joy,  uninterrupted  reign. 
Attend  the  dictates  of  celestial  truth, 
Remember  thy  Creator  in  thy  youth, 
Before  the  evil  days  come  hastening  on, 
When  thou  shalt  say,  "  My  every  joy  is  flown  ;  " 


JONATHAN  M.   SEWALL.  299 

Ere  day's  bright  orb,  and  milder  queen  of  night, 

With  every  twinkling  star,  withhold  their  light ; 

When  azure  skies  no  more  succeed  the  rain, 

But  clouds,  involving  clouds,  return  again  ; 

When  palsies  seize  the  trembling  limbs,  and  make 

The  strong  men  bow  !  the  palace-keepers  quake  ! 

The  lessening  grinders  from  their  office  fail, 

While  darkness  round  the  windows  spreads  her  veil. 

In  every  street  the  sullen  portals  close, 

And  the  cock's  clarion  interrupts  repose  ; 

Imaginary  snares  the  way  beset, 

The  tumbling  ruin,  the  deep  yawning  pit ; 

While  ceaseless  terrors  every  sense  alarm  ; 

Even  Music's  tuneful  daughters  cease  to  charm. 

Stre\vn  o'er  with  blossoms,  blooms  the  almond-tree  ; 

The  grasshopper  a  burthen  seems  to  be  ; 

Life's  glimmering  taper  shoots  a  feeble  fire, 

Just  ready  in  the  socket  to  expire  ; 

All  sense  of  joy  extinguished,  all  desire, 

Till  man  to  his  long-destined  home  is  borne, 

And  the  slow  minstrels  through  the  city  mourn. 

Ere  the  fine  silver  cord  be  snapt  in  twain, 

Or  broke  the  golden  bowl  that  holds  the  brain  ; 

The  wheel  around  its  cistern  cease  to  turn, 

Or  at  Life's  fountain  fails  the  vital  urn. 

Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  earth  again, 

The  soul  to  God  ascend,  with  him  to  reign. 


ON   A   QUACK  WHO   DIED   OF  ASTHMA. 

HERE  lies  death's  caterer,  breathless  with  the  phthisic, 
Who  lived  by  what  killed  all  his  patients,  —  PHYSIC. 


300  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE     SEASONS. 
SPRING. 

SOFT  gales  to  Winter's  chilling  blasts  succeed ; 
Perfumed  with  odors,  blooms  the  enamelled  mead  ; 
Re-echoing  music  fills  the  vocal  grove, 
Inspiring  every  sense  with  joy  and  love  ; 
Nature  to  its  great  Author  homage  pays, 
Glowing  with  rapture,  gratitude,  and  praise. 

SUMMER. 

See,  glowing  ether  sheds  one  boundless  blaze  ! 
Unclouded  Phoebus  darts  intense  his  rays  : 
Mercy  !  not  one  kind  breeze  ?     Ye  clouds,  arise  ; 
Melt  in  soft  showers,  and  mitigate  the  skies. 
Enough,  I  hear  the  distant  thunder's  voice  : 
Rejoice  !  it  pours  amain  ;  ye  grateful  fields,  rejoice  ! 

AUTUMN. 

Adieu,  ye  vernal  fields  :  now  Autumn  reigns, 
Unloads  her  gifts,  rewards  the  peasant's  pains. 
Then,  while  your  crowded  barns  scarce  hold  the  grain, 
Unasked,  like  Boaz,  let  the  stranger  glean  : 
More  plenteous  crops  shall  crown  each  fei'tile  vale, 
Nor  your  rich,  ponderous  harvests  ever  fail. 

WINTER. 

Winter,  dread  Winter,  reigns  !  each  joy  o'ercasts, 
Involved  in  tempests,  armed  with  piercing  blasts  ! 
Nature's  locked  up  !  whole  rivers  as  they  run, 
To  flint  converted,  mock  the  feeble  sun  ; 
Enrobed  in  fleecy  garb,  the  fields  are  bright, 
Revealing  to  the  eye  one  boundless,  shining  white. 


JONATHAN  M.   SEWALL.  301 


ANNIVERSARY  SONG. 

WHEN  our  great  Sires  this  land  explored, 
A  shelter  from  tyrannic  wrong  ; 

Led  on  by  heaven's  Almighty  Lord, 
They  sung  and  acted  well  the  song,  — 

Rise  united  !  dare  be  freed  ! 

Our  sons  shall  vindicate  the  deed. 


In  vain  the  region  they  would  gain 
Was  distant,  dreary,  undisclosed  ; 

In  vain  the  Atlantic  roared  between, 
And  hosts  of  savages  opposed. 

They  rushed  undaunted  :  Heaven  decreed 

Their  sons  should  vindicate  the  deed. 


'Twas  Freedom  led  the  wanderers  forth, 

And  manly  fortitude  to  bear : 
They  toiled,  succeeded,  —  such  high  worth 

Is  always  Heaven's  peculiar  care. 
Their  great  example  still  inspires, 
Nor  dare  we  act  beneath  our  Sires. 


'Tis  ours  undaunted  to  defend 

The  dear-bought,  rich  inheritance  ; 

And,  spite  of  every  hostile  hand, 

We'll  fight,  bleed,  die  !  in  its  defence  ; 

Pursue  our  Fathers'  path  to  fame, 

And  emulate  their  glorious  flame. 


302  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

As  Jove's  high  plant  inglorious  stands, 
Till  storms  and  thunders  root  it  fast ; 

So  stood  our  new,  unpractised  bands, 
Till  Britain  waved  her  stormy  blast. 

Her  soon  they  vanquished,  fierce  led  on 

By  Freedom  and  great  WASHINGTON  ! 

Hail,  godlike  Hero  !  born  to  save  ! 

Ne'er  shall  thy  deathless  laurels  fade, 
But  on  thy  brow  eternal  wave, 

And  consecrate  blest  Vernon's  shade  ; 
Thy  spreading  glories  still  increase, 
Till  earth  and  time  and  nature  cease. 


TO   S.   S.,   ESQ. 
On  his  joining  the  American  Army  in  1777. 

WHEN  once  the  die  is  cast,  vain  all  regret ! 

Sense,  virtue,  duty,  teach  us  to  submit. 

Go  then,  my  friend !  in  quest  of  glory  go, 

Defend  your  country,  and  repel  the  foe. 

With  native  fortitude  and  valor  blest, 

Let  your  example  animate  the  rest ; 

Arouse  the  torpid,  and  the  dull  inspire, 

Till  each  bold  brother  burns  with  all  your  fire. 

'Tis  not  for  conquest,  but  defence,  you  fight : 

Think,  'tis  your  Country's  cause,  and  think  it  right. 

Whate'er  began  the  desolating  woe, 

A  cause  apparent,  or  some  secret  foe, 

The  ill  so  universally  is  spread, 

'Tis  now  too  late  to  alter  or  recede  ; 

And  arms  and  blood  alone  can  terminate  the  deed. 


JONATHAN  M.   SEWALL.  303 

If  generous  Cathmos,  Priam's  godlike  son, 
And  glorious  Brutus,  gained  such  high  renown, 
Who  waged,  perhaps,  unvindicable  war, 
Because  their  Country's  safety  was  their  care  ; 
Much  more  will  you,  who,  faithful  to  your  trust, 
Defend  a  cause  which  half  the  globe  thinks  just. 
But,  O  my  brother !  happier  fates  attend 
My  Country's,  mine,  and  virtue's  noblest  friend  ! 
Heaven  crown  thee  with  their  glory  on  the  plain  ! 
But,  ah,  return  thee  to  our  arms  again  ! 


TO  A  LADY   SINGING. 

How  oft,  Eliza,  have  I  thought, 

Since  first  I  heard  those  notes  of  love, 

I'd  rather  listen  to  thy  voice 

Than  hear  a  radiant  saint  above  ! 

And  by  those  lips  that  sang  so  sweet, 
And  by  that  warbling  voice  divine, 

I  vow,  to  hear  a  seraph's  lyre, 
I'd  not  forego  one  note  of  thine. 

Then  how  divinely  blest  the  youth 

Ordained  by  Heaven  to  share  thy  love  ! 

Raptured,  he'll  listen,  gaze,  adore  ; 
Nor  envy  seraphims  above. 

Thus  will  the  fond,  enamoured  youth 
Sink,  overwhelmed  in  love's  abyss  ; 

And,  snatching  treasures  from  those  lips, 
Dissolve  in  ecstasies  of  bliss. 


304  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


PSALM  XCIII. 

THY  boundless  sway,  Almighty  Lord  ! 

Earth,  heaven,  all  nature,  own  : 
Strength,  majesty,  omnipotence, 

Are  thine,  great  King,  alone. 

The  strong  foundations  of  the  globe 

Were  fixed  at  thy  command  : 
Unshaken  still  from  ages  past, 

They  shall  to  ages  stand. 

But  thy  firm  throne  before  all  time 

Immutable  hath  stood, 
The  eternal  mansion  where  resides 

The  self-existent  God. 

The  floods,  O  Lord  !  with  fury  rise 

And  roar  and  foam  on  high ; 
Still  urged  by  storms,  they  rage,  they  burst, 

And  tempest  all  the  sky. 

But  thou  with  ease  canst  still  their  noise, 

And  make  their  fury  cease  ; 
One  breath  of  thine  their  rage  subdues, 

And  softens  all  to  peace. 

Since  such  thy  power,  Eternal  God  ! 

What  wretch  shall  dare  rebel  ? 
L'nspotted  holiness  alone 

Can  with  thee  ever  dwell. 


JONATHAN  M.   SEWALL.  305 


EPIGRAM. 

THE  famous  Peter  Porcupine, 

Who  loved  a  joke  full  well, 
In  merry  humor  advertised 

"Porcupine's  quills  to  sell." 

One,  who  the  advertisement  read, 
Sent  quick,  and  bought  a  score  : 

On  viewing  them,  his  choler  rose  ; 
He  raved,  he  stamped,  he  swore ! 

Away  to  Gobbet's  shop  he  hies, 
And  cursed  him  for  a  rogue,  — 

"  These  are  not  what  you  advertised, 
You  lying,  cheating  dog  !  " 

I  lie  not,  cheat  not,  Peter  cried 

With  grave  and  solemn  tone  : 
When  mine,  these  quills  were  Porcupine's  ; 

They're  GOOSE-QUILLS  now,  I  own  ! 


EPITAPH   ON  A  PETTIFOGGER. 

To  elude  the  bailiff,  Quibble  vainly  tries : 
Death  served  the  Writ,  and  here  tongue-tied  he  LIES. 
When  summoned  to  the  bar  with  trumpet  shrill, 
What  will  the  lying  varlet  do?  —  LIE  still. 

20 


B.     P.     SHILLABER. 


THE  THREE  LOCKS. 

I  LAY  them  gently  on  my  open  palm,  — ' 

Three  locks  of  hair,  —  the  golden,  dark,  and  white  : 

My  spirit  wakes  from  apathetic  calm, 

As  the  known  tokens  greet  my  eager  sight. 

And  Memory  beckons  from  the  distant  past 
A  train  of  spedtral  fancies  to  my  ken,  — 

Age,  Youth,  and  Childhood,  —  oh,  how  sweet  and  fast 
Come  love  and  joy  to  my  cold  heart  again  ! 

FATHER  !  I  see  thee  now,  as  when  thy  prime 

Gave  vigorous  promise  of  thy  lengthened  years,  — 

That  a  broad  lapse  would  intervene  in  time, 
Dividing  present  joy  from  future  tears. 

And  the  assurance  given  'was  fulfilled  ; 

A  garner  full  of  years  was  life  to  thee ; 
And,  when  that  kindly  heart  in  death  was  stilled, 

We  kissed  the  rod,  and  bowed  to  Heaven's  decree. 


B.  P.   SHILLABER.  307 

Calmly  to  death,  to  sleep  serene,  thou  passed  ; 

World-worn  and  weary,  thou  wert  ready  now  ! 
Strange  that  my  tears  should  flow  so  free  and  fast 

As  when  this  lock  I  took  from  off  thy  brow  ! 

BROTHER  !  the  raven's  sable  plume  ne'er  shone 

With  glossier  lustre  in  the  eye  of  day, 
Than  this  last  trophy,  which  affection  won 

From  the  loved  form  that  cold  before  me  lay. 

O  Death  !  how  bitter  was  the  pang  when  riven 
Became  the  tender  bond  which  bound  him  here  ! 

O  Death  !  a  sadder  blow  thou  ne'er  hast  given 
Than  that  which  brought  him  to  his  early  bier. 

In  the  young  spring-time  of  his  days,  he  passed 

From  youth's  allurements  and  from  scenes  of  earth  ; 

As  the  bright  morning  may  be  overcast, 
Ere  many  hours  shall  smile  upon  its  birth.  • 

My  CHILD  !  my  dimming  eyes  behold  thee  still, 
As  when  thy  little  hand  in  mine  was  pressed  ; 

As  when  my  pulse  with  rapture  wild  would  thrill 
To  feel  thy  young  heart  throb  against  my  breast ; 

As  when  that  golden  curl  would  sweetly  blend 
With  the  bright  glory  of  thy  radiant  eye, 

And  such  a  beauty  to  thy  face  did  lend 

As  stilled  the  thought  that  thou  couldst  ever  die  ; 

As  when  thy  prattling  tongue  would  greet  mine  ear 
With  the  glad  accent  of  a  dawning  love  ; 

As  when  thy  promise  made  my  pathway  here 
A  blessed  forecast  of  the  bliss  above. 


308  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  weave  a  braid,  —  the  gold,  the  dark,  the  white  ; 

They  mingle  well,  these  types  of  human  life  ! 
The  calm  of  Age,  Youth's  hope,  the  Child's  delight, 

The  simple  cord  with  eloquence  is  rife. 

Brief  is  the  time  dividing  old  and  young,  — 
A  step  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave  : 

Death's  shadow  o'er  the  manly  oak  is  flung, 
Ere  yet  its  youthful  glories  cease  to  wave. 


THE   SPRING  ON  THE   SHORE.* 

UPGUSHING  through  the  pebbly  strand, 
Here  flows  a  fairy  crystal  stream  ; 

Its  waters,  sparkling  o'er  the  sand, 
Like  threads  of  liquid  silver  seem. 

The  music  of  its  note  is  sweet, 
As  singingly  it  speeds  along, 

The  river's  stormy  lord  to  meet, 

And  soothe  his  harshness  with  a  song. 

The  cattle  from  the  grassy  lea 

Come  gratefully  its  wealth  to  drink  ; 

And  birds  of  land  and  birds  of  sea 
Meet  peacefully  beside  its  brink. 


*  Upon  the  shore  of  the  Piscataqua,  in  Newington,  N.H.,  is 
a  spring  of  pure  water,  over  which  the  salt  river  flows  at  every 
high  tide. 


S.  P.   SHILLABER.  309 

The  sunbeam  on  the  rippling  tide 

Smiles  gayly  down  from  heavenly  height, 

To  see  its  glories  magnified 

In  myriad  beams  of  golden  light. 

And  men,  with  foreheads  red  and  warm, 
Bow  down  before  the  crystal  shrine  ; 

And  girlhood  bends  her  graceful  form, 
And  shadowy  lips  with  real  join. 

But  see  the  rapid  river  rise ! 

Fast,  fast  it  gains  upon  the  shore,  — 
A  moment ;  and  the  spot  we  prize 

The  angry  billow  closes  o'er. 

But  gushing  still,  though  hid  from  view, 

The  little  rill  yet  pours  its  tide, 
As  constantly,  as  pure  and  true, 

As  when  by  sunlight  glorified  ! 

And  when  the  rolling  river  wanes, 

And  cravenly  deserts  the  shore, 
The  rivulet  new  strength  obtains, 

And  sings  and  sparkles  as  before. 

And  this  the  lesson  it  may  teach,  — 

That  thus  Truth's  crystal  streamlets  rise, 

And  trickle  on  o'er  Time's  dark  beach, 
To  bless  the  heart  and  glad  the  eyes ; 

And  that,  though  Error's  tide  o'erflow 
The  gentle  stream,  and  hide  its  power, 

Its  silvery  wave  again  will  glow, 

And  Truth's  fair  spirit  rule  the  hour. 


310  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

A  BENEVOLENT  man  was  Absalom  Bess  : 
At  each  and  every  tale  of  distress, 

He  blazed  right  up  like  a  rocket ; 
He  felt  for  all  who  'neath  poverty's  smart 
Were  doomed  to  bear  life's  roughest  part : 
He  felt  for  them  in  his  inmost  heart, 

But  never  felt  —  in  his  pocket. 

He  didn't  know  rightly  what  was  meant 

By  the  Bible's  promised  four  hundred  per  cent 

For  charity's  donation  ; 

But  he  acted  as  if  he  thought  railroad  stocks, 
And  bonds  secure  beneath  earthly  locks, 
Were  better,  with  pockets  brim  full  of  rocks, 

Than  heavenly  speculation. 

Yet  all  said  he  was  an  excellent  man ; 

For  the  poor  he'd  preach,  for  the  poor  he'd  plan, 

To  better  them  he  was  willing : 
But  the  oldest  one  who  had  heard  him  pray 
And  preach  for  the  poor  in  a  pitiful  way 
Couldn't  remember,  exactly,  to  say 

He  had  ever  given  a  shilling. 

Oh  !  an  excellent  man  was  Absalom  Bess  ; 
And  the  world  threw  up  its  hands  to  bless, 

Whenever  his  name  was  mentioned  : 
But  he  died  one  day,  he  did  ;  and  oh  ! 
He  went  right  down  to  the  shades  below, 
Where  all  are  bound,  I  fear,  to  go, 

Who  are  only  good-intentioned. 


B.  P.   SHILLABEE.  311 


THE   LITTLE   RIVULET.* 

I  KNOW  a  gentle  rill 
That  springs  beside  a  hill, 

In  the  shade 

Of  the  birch's  emerald  screen, 
And  the  alder's  cheerful  green, 
And  the  sweet-fern  in  between, 
Where  the  sun's  bright  glow,  I  ween, 

Ne'er  hath  strayed. 

Down  through  the  meadow  wide, 
Down  by  the  deep  wood-side, 
Cheerfully  its  crystal  tide 

Moves  along ; 
And  the  cattle  on  its  brink, 
As  they  bow  their  heads  to  drink, 
Seem  to  linger  there,  and  think 

On  its  song. 

That  song,  —  how  sweet  its  notes, 
As  on  the  air  it  floats  ! 

And  the  birds 

On  the  willow  spray  that's  near 
Oft  turn  a  raptured  ear, 
And  stoop  the  bliss  to  hear 

Of  its  words. 


*  Chase's  Pasture,  Portsmouth. 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

The  trees  their  branches  wave, 
As  their  roots  the  waters  lave  ; 

And  the  grass 
Receives  a  brighter  hue, 
And  the  flowers  of  gold  and  blue 
Their  brilliancy  renew 

As  they  pass. 

And  on  its  placid  breast 
The  lilies  fondly  rest, 
As  if  supremely  blest 

With  content ; 
And  the  sedges  by  its  side 
Look  down  upon  its  tide, 
With  love  and  trust  and  pride 

Sweetly  blent. 

And  the  living  eddies  swirl, 
And  their  graceful  ripples  curl 
Like  the  tresses  of  a  girl ; 

And  the  sky 

Sends  troops  of  gorgeous  clouds 
To  gaze  on  it  in  crowds, 
'    From  on  high. 

Like  the  joyous  tide  of  youth, 
Like  its  virtue,  like  its  truth, 
Like  its  guilelessness  and  ruth, 

Sweetly  gay, 

Blessing  all  it  glides  among, 
Cooling  fevered  brow  and  tongue, 
Ever  marked  with  smile  and  song, 

On  its  way. 


* 
B,  P.    SHILLABEE.  313 

And  the  gentle  flow  of  song 
Like  its  waters  moves  along, 
Busy  paths  of  men  among  ; 

And  its  word, — 
Though  the  tempest  din  of  life 
Drown  it,  mayhap,  in  its  strife, 
Still  its  voice,  with  heaven  rife, 

Shall  be  heard. 


SPIRIT  LONGING. 

FOR  eVer  wakefully  the  ear  is  turning 

To  catch  some  token  from  the  shadowy  sphere ; 

For  ever  is  the  full  heart  strongly  yearning 

Some  word  of  pi'omise  from  its  depths  to  hear. 

When  the  dark  shadows  flit  along  the  ceiling, 
As  the  dull  firelight  trembles  in  the  grate, 

Fancy,  fond  yet  with  old  remembered  feeling, 
Striveth  the  loved  and  lost  to  re-create.  • 

It  feels  their  presence  in  the  hush  of  even, 
When  day's  excitement  settles  to  repose  ; 

It  sees  them  in  the  twilight  hues  of  heaven, 
And  in  the  beauties  that  the  stars  disclose. 

It  heeds  the  breezes  that  around  are  playing, 
And  in  their  music  fain  that  voice  would  hear, 

Whose  melody,  it  deems,  may  yet  be  straying 
To  glad  the  faithful  hearts  yet  sorrowing  here. 


314  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

When  midnight,  resting  like  a  pall  above  us, 

Within  its  dusky  arms  infoldeth  all, 
We  list  for  those  whom  hope  says  still  may  love  us, 

And  sigh  as  their  unanswering  names  we  call. 

We  dream,  and  ever-faithful  Memory  bringeth 
Old  happiness  we  may  not  know  awake  ; 

The  rose  of  pleasure  in  our  pathway  springeth, 
And  rills  of  joy  where  we  our  thirst  may  slake. 

But,  oh  !  returning  consciousness  dispelleth 
The  sweet  illusion  in  whose  thrall  was  bliss  ; 

And  strife  renewed  in  life's  encounter  quelleth 
Regrets,  as  we  our  dreams  of  joy  dismiss  ! 

And  are  there  kindred  spirits  dwelling  by  us, 

And  mingling  yet  their  loving  thoughts  with  ours, 

For  ever  drawing  in  communion  nigh  us, 

In  virtue's  way  to  cheer  our  lagging  powers  ? 

Oh  !  are  there  voices  that  may,  at  our  asking, 
Come  to  assure  us  of  that  better  state, 

Where,  evermore  in  endless  pleasures  basking, 
Those  gone  before,  our  fond  re-union  wait? 

The  seeking  soul  asks  for  prophetic  vision 
To  penetrate  the  dark,  mysterious  cloud 

That  intervenes  between  the  land  elysian 

And  this  dull  earth,  where  sins  and  sorrows  crowd. 

The  grave  is  not  a  bourn  whose  sombre  portal 
Closeth  eternal  o'er  the  bright  and  fair ; 

But  through  its  gate  to  blessedness  immortal 
The  spirit  passeth,  endless  life  to  share. 


B.  P.   S  HILL  ABE E.  315 


Still  old  affection  hereward  back  is  turning, 
And  whispering  words  to  us  of  joy  and  peace  ; 

And  spiritual  eyes  are  round  us  burning 

With  holier  love  as  heavenly  powers  increase. 


A    PICTURE. 

1857- 

THERE'S  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river's*  side, 

Within  the  sound  of  its  rippling  tide  : 

Its  walls  are  gray  with  the  mosses  of  years, 

And  its  roof  all  crumbly  and  old  appears  ; 

But  fairer  to  me  than  a  castle's  pride 

Is  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

The  little  low  hut  was  my  natal  nest, 

Where  my  childhood  passed,  —  life's  spring-time  blest, 

Where  the  hopes  of  ardent  youth  were  formed, 

And  the  sun  of  promise  my  young  heart  warmed, 

Ere  I  threw  myself  on  life's  swift  tide, 

And  left  the  dear  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  old  hut,  in  lowly  guise, 
Was  lofty  and  grand  to  my  youthful  eyes  ; 
And  fairer  trees  were  ne'er  known  before 
Than  the  apple-trees  by  the  humble  door, 
That  my  father  loved  for  their  thrifty  pride, 
Which  shadowed  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


*  The  North  Mill  Pond,  Portsmouth. 


316  POETS    OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

That  little  low  hut  had  a  glad  hearthstone, 
That  echoed  of  old  with  a  pleasant  tone  ; 
And  brothers  and  sisters,  a  merry  crew, 
Filled  the  hours  with  pleasure  as  on  they  flew : 
But  one  by  one  have  the  loved  ones  died 
That  dwelt  in  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

The  father  revered,  and  the  children  gay, 

The  grave  and  the  world  have  called  away ; 

But  quietly  all  alone  there  sits 

By  the  pleasant  window,  in  summer,  and  knits, 

An  aged  woman,  long  years  allied 

With  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  old  hut  to  the  lonely  wife 
Is  the  cherished  stage  of  her  active  life : 
Each  scene  is  recalled  in  memory's  beam, 
As  she  sits  by  the  window  in  pensive  dream  ; 
And  joys  and  woes  roll  back  like  a  tide, 
In  that  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

My  mother  !  —  alone  by  the  river's  side 

She  waits  for  the  flood  of  the  heavenly  tide, 

And  the  voice  that  shall  thrill  her  heart  with  its  call, 

To  meet  once  more  with  the  dear  ones  all, 

And  form,  in  a  region  beatified, 

The  band  that  once  met  by  the  river's  side. 

That  dear  old  hut  by  the  river's  side 
With  the  warmest  pulse  of  my  heart  is  allied  ; 
And  a  glory  is  over  its  dark  walls  thrown 
That  statelier  fabrics  have  never  known ; 
And  I  still  shall  love,  with  a  fonder  pride, 
That  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


B.   P.   SHILLABER.  oY 


AN  ANALOGY: 

A  Fancied  Resemblance  between  a  Little  Stream  of  Water 
and  a  Little  Life. 

A  GENTLE  rill  gushed  from  the  breast  of  Spring, 
And  flowed  in  beauty  through  the  summer-land  ; 

Stealing  along,  just  like  some  bashful  thing, 
Half-hidden  by  the  boughs  that  o'er  it  spanned. 

But  the  wild  blossoms  in  its  mirrored  sheen 
Beheld  themselves  in  all  their  rustic  pride  ; 

And  the  tall  trees  assumed  a  brighter  green, 
Because  they  stood  the  little  rill  beside. 

So  humble  was  it,  that  the  dallying  grass 

Asked  not  the  question  whence  the  wanderer  came  ; 

And  the  proud  lilies,  as  they  felt  it  pass, 

Looked  down  upon  the  stream  of  modest  name. 

Yet  tenderly  the  sweet  rill  loved  the  flowers, 
And  the  great  trees  that  grew  upon  its  brink  : 

It  saved  for  them  the  bounty  of  the  showers, 
And  filled  their  empty  cups  with  needed  drink. 

It  asked  for  no  return  :  unselfishly 

It  moved,  content  that  it  was  doing  good  ; 

Delighted,  from  its  ministry,  to  see 
The  gladness  of  a  green  beatitude. 


318  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Anon,  a  change  came  o'er  the  little  stream,  — 
The  loving  sun  had  claimed  it  for  his  own  ; 

And,  like  some  fleeting  picture  in  a  dream, 
In  all  its  quiet  beauty  it  had  flown. 

The  flowers  grew  sickly  that  had  erewhile  dwelt 
Upon  its  banks  in  queenliness  of  state  ; 

The  sturdy  trees  its  unlocked  absence  felt ; 
The  lilies  withered,  —  beautiful  of  late  ; 

The  grasses  sighed  in  sallow  discontent ; 

And  all  confessed  the  rill  a  friend  most  true  ; 
Contrite  that  its  sweet  life  should  thus  be  spent 

Before  its  loving  offices  they  knew. 

'Tis  thus  we've  seen  some  gentle,  loving  one 
Noiselessly  moving  through  the  paths  of  life  ; 

Here  cheering  sadness  with  her  voice's  tone, 
There  giving  tears  as  mollients  to  strife  ; 

Singing  with  bird-like  sweetness  on  her  way, 
From  the  outgushing  of  her  teeming  heart, 

As  the  airs  blow,  or  the  bright  waters  play, 
Unknowing  the  blest  influence  they  impart. 

We  value  not  the  blessing  by  our  side, 
Until,  down-stricken  by  some  fatal  blight, 

We  feel  it  with  our  joy  identified, 

And  mourn  the  star  now  hidden  from  our  sight. 

The  noisy  consequence  of  life  may  claim 
The  tribute  of  attention  at  our  hand  ; 

But  'tis  the  little  acts  of  humble  name 

That  make  our  hearts  with  blessedness  expand. 


B.  P.   S  HILL  ABE E.  319 


FRENCHMAN'S   LANE.* 

'TwAS  a  brave  old  spot,  and  deep  was  the  shade 
By  the  fast-locked  boughs  of  the  elm-trees  made, 
Where  the  sun  scarce  looked  with  his  fiery  eye, 
As  he  coursed  through  the  burning  summer  sky, 
Where  breezes  e'er  fanned  the  heat-flushed  cheek,  — 
Old  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

Most  lovely  the  spot,  yet  dark  was  the  tale 

That  made  the  red  lips  of  boyhood  pale, 

Of  the  Frenchman's  doom,  and  the  bitter  strife, 

Of  the  blood-stained  sward,  and  the  gleaming  knife, 

Of  the  gory  rock  set  the  wrong  to  speak, 

In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

But  the  grass  spiting  green  where  the  Frenchman  fell, 
And  the  elder-blossoms  were  sweet  as  well, 
And  the  pears  grew  ripe  on  the  branches  high, 
And  the  bright  birds  sang  in  the  elm-trees  nigh, 
And  the  squirrels  played  at  their  hide-and-seek, 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

The  blessed  shade  on  the  greensward  lay, 
And  quiet  and  peace  reigned  there  all  day  ; 
The  fledglings  were  safe  in  the  tall  elm-tops, 
More  safe  than  the  pear-trees'  luscious  crops  : 
For  the  pears  were  sweet,  and  virtue  weak, 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

*  Frenchman's  Lane  was  the  scene  of  a  fearful  murder, 
where  a  sailor  belonging  to  the  French  fleet  that  lay  at  Ports 
mouth,  N.H.,  nearly  a  century  ago,  was  found  with  his  throat 
cut.  Hence  its  name,  and  the  mystery  connected  with  it. 


320  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But  at  times  when  the  night  hung  heavily  there, 

And  a  spirit  of  mystery  filled  the  air, 

When  the  whispering  leaves  faint  murmur  made, 

Like  children  at  night  when  sore  afraid, 

Came  fancied  sounds  like  a  distant  shriek, 

In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

And  gleaming  white  at  times  was  seen 

A  figure,  the  gloomy  trees  between  ; 

And  fancy  gave  it  the  Frenchman's  shape, 

All  ghastly  and  drear,  with  wounds  agape  ! 

But  fancy  played  us  many  a  freak 

In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek : 

For  lovers'  vows  those  dark  shades  heard, 
Their  sighs  the  slumbering  night-air  stirred  ; 
And  the  gleaming  muslin's  hue,  I  ween, 
Was  the  ghostly  glimpse,  the  limbs  between  ! 
There  was  arm  in  arm,  and  cheek  by  cheek, 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

Ah,  blissful  days  !  how  fleet  ye  flew, 

Ere  from  life  exhaled  its  morning  dew ! 

When  children's  voices  sweet  echoes  woke, 

That  often  the  brooding  stillness  broke, 

As  the  meadow  strawberry's  bed  they'd  seek, 

Through  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

Those  days  have  long  been  distant  days, 
Recalled  in  memory's  flickering  rays  ; 
And  the  boys  are  men,  with  hearts  grown  cold 
In  the  world  whose  sun  is  a  sun  of  gold, 
And  their  voice  no  more  in  music  will  speak 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 


B.   P.   SHILLABEB. 

And  Frenchman's  Lane  has  passed  away : 
No  more  on  its  sward  do  the  shadows  play ; 
The  pear-trees  old  from  the  scene  have  passed, 
And  the  blood-marked  stone  aside  is  cast ; 
And  the  engine's  whistle  is  heard  to  shriek 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

But,  true  to  ourselves,  we  shall  ever  retain 
A  love  for  the  green  old  Frenchman's  Lane, 
And  its  romance,  its  terror,  its  birds  and  bloom, 
Its  pears  and  the  elderblow's  perfume  ; 
And  a  tear  at  times  may  moisten  the  cheek 
For  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 


BALLAD  ABOUT  BUNKER. 

'TWAS  dreadful  hot  on  Bunker's  height, — 
The  patriots  in  their  trenches  lay,  — 

While,  bellowing  with  a  bitter  spite, 
The  British  cannon  blazed  away  ! 

When  Parson  Martin  wiped  his  brow, 
And,  turning  round  to  Prescott,  spoke,  — 

"  I  guess  I'll  go,  if  you'll  allow, 

A  while  among  the  Charlestown  folk. 

I  feel  there's  danger  to  the  town  ; 

I  see  the  clouds  there  gathering  thick ; 
And,  ere  the  storm  comes  rattling  down, 

I  think  I'll  tell  them  cut  their  stick." 
21 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  then  he  took  a  glass,  —  good  man  !  — 
And  through  the  village  made  his  way  ; 

A  glass,  I  mean,  with  which  to  scan 
The  hostile  vessels  in  the  Bay. 

He  saw  the  British  barges  fill 

With  armed  soldiers,  fierce  and  strong, 
And  told  the  folk  it  boded  ill, 

And  that  they'd  better  push  along. 

But  no  !  not  they  :  a  dogged  trait 
Impelled  them  to  incur  the  pinch ; 

And  so  they  thought  they'd  better  wait, 
And  vowed  they  wouldn't  budge  an  inch. 

Again  good  Parson  Martin  went 

Down  to  the  village  all  alone : 
From  digging  hard  his  strength  was  spent, 

From  watching  he  was  weary  grown. 

"  Now  rest  ye,"  Goodman  Gary  said  ; 

"  Your  tottering  limbs  pray  here  bestow  ; " 
And  pointed  to  a  bounteous  bed, 

A  solace  meet  for  weary  woe. 

And  on  the  bed  the  parson  fell ; 

But  scarcely  had  his  eyelids  closed, 
When,  crashing  through  the  roof,  a  shell 

Disturbed  the  dream  in  which  he  dozed. 

"  I  think,"  quoth  he,  upstarting  straight, 
"  'Twill  be  here  somewhat  warm  to-day  ; 

And  that,  if  you  should  hap  to  wait, 
You'll  find  the  Ancient  Nick  to  pay  !  " 


B.  P.   SHILLABER.  323 

And  then  from  out  the  fated  bound 
The  people  sadly  made  their  tracks  ; 

But  Parson  Martin  —  he  was  found 

Where  fell  the  most  determined  whacks. 

His  heart  to  Heaven  went  up  in  prayer, 
That  it  would  aid  each  mother's  son  ; 

And  Heaven  made  vocal  answer  there 
In  every  deadly  patriot  gun  ! 


A  COURTING  REMINISCENCE. 

MY  brow  is  seamed  o'er  with  the  iron  of  years, 

And  the  snow-threads  are  gleaming  the  dark  locks 

among ; 
My  eyes  have  grown  dim  in  the  shadow  of  tears, 

And  the  flowers  of  my  soul  have  died  as  they  sprung  ; 
But  Memory  bears  to  me,  on  its  broad  wings, 

Bright  images  true  of  my  earliest  life  ; 
And  there,  'mid  the  fairest  of  all  that  she  brings, 

Is  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 

That  low  humble  room  seemed  a  palace  of  light, 

As  Love  held  his  torch  and  illumined  the  scene, 
With  glory  of  state  and  profusion  bedight, 

Where  I  was  a  monarch,  my  darling  a  queen  : 
Ourselves  were  our  subjects,  pledged  loyal  to  each  ; 

And  which  should  love  best  was  our  heartiest  strife  : 
What  tales  could  it  tell,  if  possessing  a  speech,  — 

That  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife  ! 


324  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Warm  vows  has  it  heard,  —  the  warmest  e'er  spoke, — 

Where  lips  have  met  lips  in  holy  embrace  ; 
Where  feelings,  that  never  to  utterance  woke, 

It  saw  oft  revealed  in  a  duplicate  face ! 
The  sweet  hours  hastened,  —  how  quickly  they  flew  !  — 

With  fervor,  devotion,  and  ecstasy  rife  : 
Our  hearts  throbbed  the  hours,  but  how  I  ne'er  knew, 

In  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 


The  romance  of  youth  lent  its  rapturous  zest, 

And  fairy-land  knew  no  delight  like  our  own  : 
Our  words  were  but  few,  yet  they  were  the  best,  — 

A  dialecl  sweet  for  ourselves  all  alone  ; 
So  anxious  to  hear  what  the  other  might  say, 

We  scarcely  could  utter  a  word,  for  our  life  : 
Thus  the  hours  unheeded  passed  fleetly  away 

In  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 


Long  years  have  since  passed  o'er  my  darling  and  me, 

And  the  roses  have  faded  away  from  her  cheek  ; 
But  the  merciless  seasons,  as  onward  they  flee, 

Leave  love  still  undimmed  in  her  bosom  so  meek : 
That  love  is  the  light  to  my  faltering  feet, 

My  comfort  in  moments  with  sorrowing  rife, 
My  blessing  in  joy,  as  with  joy  'twas  replete 

In  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 


£.  P.   SHILLABEB.  325 


•  THE   DISMISSAL: 

Skewing'  the  Feeling  of  a  Patriotic  young  Lady,  on  the   Occa 
sion  of  her  Lover's  Recreancy. 

THE  time  has  come  that  we  must  part : 

I  own  no  more  the  tender  tie 
That  lately  bound  us  heart  to  heart, 

And  say  to  all  my  hopes  —  good-by. 

I  loved  a  MAN.     My  love  is  dead ; 

For,  when  his  country  claimed  his  sword, 
He  from  the  trial  meanly  fled, 

And  died  in  living  shame  abhorred. 

He  died  to  me :  I'll  own  no  more 

The  sway  that  once  my  heart  inthralled  : 

The  time  that's  passed  I  may  deplore, 
But  do  not  wish  the  past  recalled. 

Take  back  your  gifts.     The  golden  chain 

You  hung  about  my  neck  of  old 
Would  now  a  burden  be  of  pain,  — 

Your  cowardice  pollutes  the  gold. 

I  from  my  fingers  tear  the  ring 

I  long  have  worn  in  loving  pride  : 
'Twould  be  from  hence  a  hated  thing, 

Since  all  that  gave  it  value  died. 


326  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  read  your  words  with  burning  brow, 
So  full  of  tender  love  for  me  ; 

But  I  absolve  from  every  vow, 

And  set  you  from  your  bondage  free. 

I  would  have  borne  with  you  the  toil, 
The  burden,  of  obscure  estate  : 

I'd  not  complain  to  be  the  foil 
Of  adverse  and  invidious  fate. 

With  honor  left  to  shed  its  light, 
We,  self-sustaining,  hand  in  hand, 

Might  well  have  dared  misfortune's  spite,  — 
The  poorest,  proudest  in  the  land. 

But  now  I  shudder  as  I  think, 

Like  one  awakened  from  a  dream, 

Of  slumbering  on  the  awful  brink 
Of  that  black-moving  hideous  stream, 

Whose  course  leads  on  its  darkling  way 
Through  ignominiousness  and  shame, 

Lit  only  by  one  lurid  ray, 

To  show  my  coward-coupled  name. 

Escaped,  thank  God  !  —  I  rend  the  chain, 
And  stand  up  disinthralled  and  free : 

The  riven  steel,  the  human  pain, 
I  give,  my  country's  cause,  to  thee. 

'Tis  duty's  throb  that  stills  complaint,  — 
No  human  love  must  intervene  ; 

And  better  far  than  recreant  taint 

Were  early  grave  and  memory  green. 


B.  P.   SEILLABEB.  327 


GRAPE-SKINS. 

I  SAW  a  man  of  portly  estate 
Walking  the  street  with  regal  gait ; 
Just  the  man  that  the  eye  well  suits, 
Proper  and  nice,  from  hat  to  boots. 
So  perfect  his  coat,  so  neat  his  vest, 
An  exquisite  taste  was  manifest ; 
And  every  one  who  chose  to  scan 
Could  only  say,  what  a  tasteful  man  ! 

Alas,  for  the  glory  of  human  pride, 

As  frail  and  fickle  as  the  tide ! 

For  the  polish  of  blacking  and  brush  and  oil 

One  little  spatter  of  mud  may  spoil. 

E'en  as  he  walked  the  pave  along, 

With  head  exalted  and  footstep  strong, 

He  trod  on  a  grape-skin  in  his  way ; 

And  a  man  disgraced  in  the  dirt  he  lay ! 

This  moral  I  drew  from  what  I  saw : 
There  are  men  in  the  world  without  a  flaw, 
Who  are  in  such  robes  of  sanctity  found, 
And  such  rare  virtues  engirt  them  round, 
That  we  humble  ourselves  as  we  pass  them  by 
With  reverent  and  admiring  eye, 
Saying,  while  viewing  such  merits  rare  ; 
Bless  us,  what  veiy  good  men  they  are  ! 


328  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

But,  alas,  for  the  glory  of  human  pride, 
As  frail  and  fickle  as  the  tide  ! 
In  the  world  of  men  they  exalt  their  horn, 
As  though  of  a  better  clay  they  were  born  ; 
But  there  in  their  path,  the  grape-skins  wait,  — 
Temptations  hidden  perhaps  till  late,  — 
One  step  of  the  foot,  one  curvetting  lurch,  — 
And  down  they  come  from  their  eminent  perch ! 

In  dress  or  morals,  'tis  much  the  same ; 
And  happy  is  he,  who  wins  his  fame, 
If  he  die  at  its  zenith,  nor  has  to  wait 
Till  he  slip,  and  fall  through  invidious  fate. 
He  may  dodge  the  rock,  and  shy  the  cloud 
That  threat  his  step  and  bearing  proud, 
But  let  him  not  crow  till  danger's  past,  — 
He  may  by  a  grape-skin  be  overcast. 


POOR    BOY! 

"  POOR  boy  !  "  the  mother  fondly  sighed, 
When  she  had  bid  the  lad  farewell ; 

But  in  her  eye  was  a  lofty  pride 

That  spoke  more  than  her  tongue  would  tell. 

And,  though  her  nature  said  "  Poor  boy," 
He  in  her  breast  held  grander  place, 

And  thrilled  it  with  a  nobler  joy, 

Than  were  he  heir  of  wealth  and  grace. 


S.  P.   SHILLABER.  329 

His  was  the  heart  to  do  and  dare 

In  manly  battle  with  the  wrong : 
She  might  not  in  his  conflict  share  ; 

But  she  could  yield  him,  and  be  strong. 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  Oh,  epithet  misplaced  ! 

Not  poor  by  laws  that  reckon  worth  : 
The  noblest  record  fame  has  traced 

Has  had  no  more  exalted  birth. 

The  soul  that  thus  in  Duty's  path 

Bounds  forward  at  its  first  appeal 
More  grandeur  in  the  humblest  hath 

Than  titled  state  that  cannot  feel. 

Mother,  though  heavy  with  your  fears, 
Throw  all  your  burdening  doubts  away  ; 

Discard  the  ministry  of  tears,  — 

Your  boy  is  crowned  a  king  to-day  ! 

Not  poor !  could  you  but  see  the  goal 

For  those  the  race  have  nobly  run, 
'Twould  glad  your  yearning  mother-soul, 

To  mark  the  glory  he  has  won. 

Not  eighty  years  of  golden  sands, 
Nor  life,  though  spotless  of  a  shame, 

So  high  an  eminence  commands 
As  the  young  hero's  laurelled  name. 

Thank  God,  O  mother,  who  hath  given 

This  treasure  of  immortal  price, 
That  you  might  render  back  to  Heaven 

Your  wealth  of  love  as  sacrifice  ! 


330  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


MASTER  WEEKS'S   OLD  FERULE. 

GRIM  relic  of  a  distant  time, 
More  interesting  than  sublime  ! 
Thou'rt  fitting  subject  for  my  rhyme, 

And  touch'st  me  queerly,  — 
Unlike  the  touch  that  youthful  crime 

Provoked  severely. 

It  was  a  dark  and  fearful  day 

When  thou  held'st  sovereign  rule  and  sway, 

And  all  Humanity  might  say 

Could  not  avert 
The  doom  that  brought  thee  into  play, 

And  wrought  us  hurt ! 

Ah,  Solomon  !  that  dogma  wild 
Of  sparing  rod  and  spoiling  child 
Has  long  thy  reputation  soiled, 

And  few  defend  it : 
Our  teachers  draw  it  far  more  mild, 

And  strive  to  mend  it. 

Oh  !  bitter  were  the  blows  and  whacks 
That  fell  on  our  delinquent  backs, 
When,  varying  from  moral  tracks, 

In  youthful  error, 
Thou  madest  our  stubborn  nerves  relax 

With  direst  terror. 


B.  P.   S  HILL  ABES.  331 

I  know  'twas  urged  that  our  own  good 
Dwelt  in  the  tingle  of  the  wood 
That  scored  us  as  we  trembling  stood, 

And  couldn't  flee  it ; 
But  I  confess  I  never  could 

Exactly  see  it. 

The  smothered  wrath  at  every  stroke 
Was  keenly  felt,  though  never  spoke  ; 
And  twenty  devils  rampant  broke 

For  one  subdued, 
And  all  discordances  awoke,  — 

A  fiendish  brood. 

And  impish  trick  and  vengeful  spite 
Essayed  with  all  their  skill  and  might 
To  make  the  balance  poise  aright ; 

And  hate,  sharp-witted, 
Ne'er  left  occasion,  day  or  night, 

To  pass  omitted. 

I  see  it  now !  —  the  whittled  doors, 

The  window-panes  smashed  in  by  scores, 

The  desecrated  classic  floors, 

The  benches  levelled, 
The  streaming  ink  from  murky  pores, 

The  books  bedevilled. 

Small  reverence  for  Learning's  fane, 
For  master's  toil  of  nerve  and  brain : 
They  saw  Instruction  marred  with  pain, 

And  Alma  Mater 
Was  thought  of  only  by  the  train 

To  deprecate  her. 


332  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

'Tis  strange  to  have  thee  in  my  grasp, 
My  fingers  round  thy  handle  clasp, 
No  sense  of  pain  my  feelings  rasp, 

As  last  I  knew  thee  ! 
Then  thou  didst  sting  me  like  an  asp, 

Foul  shame  unto  thee  ! 

But  gentler  moods  suggest  the  thought, 
That  still  thine  office,  anguish-fraught, 
For  our  best  good  unselfish  wrought, 

Had  we  but  known  it ; 
And  we,  with  grateful  spirit,  ought 

To  freely  own  it. 

Perhaps,  —  but  I  am  glad  at  heart 

That  thou  no  more  bear'st  sovereign  part 

In  helping  on  Instruction's  art 

By  terror's  rule  ; 
That  other  modes  will  prompt  the  smart 

Than  thee  in  school. 

Thanks  !  old  reminder  of  the  past, 
For  this  brief  vision  backward  cast : 
We  measure  progress  to  contrast 

Times  far  and  near, 
Rejoiced,  on  summing  up  at  last, 

We're  not  arrear ! 


B.  P.   SHILLABER.  333 


TRANSMUTATION: 

Showing  the    Operation   of  a  quick   Fancy  hi    -working-   out 
spiritual  Results  from  a  real  Subjefl. 

I  SEE  him  every  week, 
With  his  thin  and  wrinkled  cheek, 
And  a  wealth  of  wintry  hair  falling  round  his  aged 

neck  ; 

And  his  coat  of  homespun  blue, 
That's  brushed  the  texture  through, 
Bears    many   awheres   about   it   a   white    and    seedy 
speck. 

He's  in  the  strangers'  seat ; 
For  no  bending  hinges  greet 
The  old  man  hoary,  when  he  comes  with  slow  and 

lagging  pace  ; 

And  the  velvet-cushioned  pews 
All  sympathy  refuse 

With  the  waiter  at  the  table  for  the  crumbs  of  God's 
free  grace. 

There  he  sits,  with  eager  ear, 

To  catch  the  heavenly  cheer, 
As  the  minister  unfolds  the  glories  of  the  Word  ; 

And  a  smile  his  face  illumes, 

As  the  apple  gives  its  blooms, 

When,    in    its   secret   depths,    the   call   of  Spring   is 
heard. 


334  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

At  times  a  tear  I'll  trace 
Steal  down  his  care-worn  face, 
As  though  some  memory  of  eld  were  passing  through 

his  brain  ; 

Then  the  smile  will  come  once  more, 
As,  when  the  storm  is  o'er, 

The  sun  appears  more  bright  through  the  lenses  of 
the  rain. 

His  name  I  cannot  guess  ; 

But  interest  no  less 
Attracts  my  eager  gaze  to  the  old  white-headed  man  ; 

For  in  his  face  I  see 

A  mighty  mystery 

That  awes  me,  as  with  earnest  eye  its  depths  I  strive 
to  scan. 

Not  with  the  pride  of  wealth, 

Not  with  the  thrill  of  health, 
The  human  soul  is  strong  in  its  world  of  joy  and  trust ; 

And,  though  drop  away 

The  props  of  mortal  clay, 

There's  a  glory  born  within  not  dimmed  by  earthly 
dust. 

I  see  upon  his  brow 

A  regal  glory  now  ; 
And  the  poverty  and  pain  are  transmuted  in  its  ray  : 

No  longer  poor  and  old 

Is  the  form  that  I  behold, 

But  a  soul  rejuvenate,  and  risen  on  a  life  of  endless 
day. 


B.  P.   SHILLABEE.  335 


BLESS  YOU! 

THERE  is  a  prayer  of  simple  art, 

That  from  the  tongue  the  readiest  slips  ; 

That  springs  spontaneous  from  the  heart, 
And  breaks  in  blessing  on  the  lips  : 
Bless  you ! 

When  joy's  bright  beam  about  us  rests 
As  some  dear  hand  our  cup  o'erfills, 

In  this  our  gladness  manifests, 

And  with  love's  fondest  cadence  thrills : 
Bless  you ! 

The  sympathy  with  other's  woe, 
That  melts  the  heart  to  loving  tears, 

No  sweeter  form  of  speech  may  know 
Than  this  the  sorrowing  spirit  hears  : 
Bless  you ! 

When  weary  limb  and  aching  brain 
Attest  the  weight  of  busy  care, 

How  lifts  the  dulling  cloud  of  pain 
To  catch  the  accent  of  that  prayer : 
Bless  you ! 

In  love's  pure  sacrament  of  bliss, 
When  lip  meets  lip  in  fond  embrace, 

Rises  with  blest  approval  this, 

To  give  the  chrism  a  holier  grace  : 
Bless  you ! 


336  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

As  failing  pulse  and  dimming  eye 
Proclaim  some  loved  one's  exit  near, 

How  like  a  whisper  from  on  high 
Comes  the  faint  murmur  to  our  ear ! 
Bless  you  ! 

But  yet  no  language  it  may  need  : 

A  glance,  as  well  as  words,  may  pray  ; 

All  speech  kind  action  may  exceed, 
A  smile  a  deeper  sense  convey : 
Bless  you ! 

Oh,  may  our  hearts  be  tuned  aright, 
Unselfishly  this  prayer  to  feel ! 

And  fill  our  measure  of  delight 
By  supplicating  others'  weal : 
Bless  you  ! 


LOUISA     SIMES. 


TO   A  CHILD. 

To  a  Child  of  Impulse,  ivho  in  a  Moment  of  beautiful  Enthu 
siasm  uttered,  '•'•Jesus  of  Nazareth  fasscth  by." 


lit 


E  passeth  by,  —  when  thy  full  heart  is  lifted 
Urgently    upward     on    thought's    radiant 
wing, 


His  breath  is  that  elastic  bound  within  thee, 

Momently  breaking  from  each  earthward  thing  ! 

When  o'er  thee  steals  a  cataract  of  feeling, 

Leaping  the  mountain  of  the  world's  restraint, 

His  the  felt  shadow  'neath  which  form  is  kneeling,  - 
Of  all  aspiring  soul,  the  Guardian  Saint ! 

He  passeth  by,  —  when  mesh  by  mesh  of  pleasure 
Weareth  its  subtle  veil  o'er  inner  light, 

With  love  more  gentle  though  it  rend  the  treasure, 
Than  Time's  slow  rust  of  never-breaking  night. 

When,  like  the  tide,  the  "  lesser  light"  is  swaying, 
The  fulness  of  thy  spirit  laveth  earth, 

Let  not  the  shimmer,  o'er  the  surface  playing, 
Hide  the  dark  rocks  retreating  waves  bring  forth. 
22 


338  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

He  treads  life's  waves  most  visibly  to  mortal, 

When  o'er  them  sweep  the  tempest  and  the  gloom  ; 

Yet  ever  waiteth  at  the  glad  heart's  portal, 

Hallowing  e'en  joys  which  have  but  pilgrim's  home  ! 

He  passeth  by,  on  every  varied  pathway, 
With  the  sweet  lessons  of  far-reaching  love  : 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  !   sink  thy  teachings  inly, 

So  from  earth-guile  the  soul  shall  wide  remove  ! 

Bear  up  in  hours  of  joy,  or  days  of  sorrow, 
Heart,  greatened  by  thy  panoply  of  truth  ; 

Link  with  each  a<5t  of  now  the  might  of  morrow  : 
Breathe  o'er  each  right  intent,  perpetual  youth. 

So,  on  the  page  of  life,  eternal  glowing, 

New  purpose  with  new  holiness  shall  write  — 

God's  spirit  still  the  dear  Immortal  showing 

Where  Jesus  passeth  not,  —  home,  home  to  light ! 


TO   A  THOUGHTFUL   BRIDE. 

'Tis  well,  —  that  look  of  pensiveness 
Upon  thy  brow,  young  bride  ! 

The  stream  of  Life  is  not  all  peace  : 
It  hath  its  varying  tide. 

And  never  was  a  time  for  thee 
To  watch  with  closer  care 

That  gentleness  and  purity 
Which  glorify  the  fair. 


LOUISA   SIMES.  339 

It  is  no  light  thing  thou  hast  clone 

To  take  the  name  of  wife, 
To  make  or  mar  the  joy  of  one 

Dearer  to  thee  than  life  ! 

A  lover's  eye  may  beam  delight 

On  beauty  of  the  dust : 
A  husband  asks  the  abiding  bloom 

Of  a  mind  in  graces  dressed. 

His  heart,  thy  chosen  earthly  rest, 

Thou  mayst  not  ever  wield  ; 
For  thousand  things  may  be  impressed 

On  man,  where  none  are  sealed  ! 

He  will  not  live  upon  the  past 

As  thou  in  memory  ; 
He  needs  the  love  that  blesses  now, 

To  light  his  future  way. 

The  hasty  word  or  look  unkind 

Thy  frown  could  once  repel  ; 
Thy  lip  must  learn  to  smile  away, 

Though  pain  thy  bosom  swell ! 

What's  dignified  as  maiden's  pride 

Is  madness  in  a  wife  ; 
The  acl  which  bends  a  lover's  knee 

May  poison  wedded  life  ! 

Whatever  were  the  charms  which  won, 

Oh  !  bid  them  brightly  glow  : 
E'en  though  they  all  unheeded  be, 

Thou  must  be  winner  now  ! 


340  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

If  gathering  frowns  or  cold  reproof 
Should  e'er  be  offered  thee, 

Oh,  bear  it  with  an  humble  heart ! 
This  is  love's  victory. 

With  hand  as  gentle  as  the  light, 
Dispel  the  shades  of  care  ; 

And,  should  it  be  thy  pain  to  chide, 
Be  tenfold  gentler  there  ! 

Sorrows  must  come,  and  many  a  care 
And  disappointment :  when 

Did  maiden  ever  wed  her  heart, 
Nor  find  its  dreams  in  vain  ? 

Man  wins  by  arts  he  seldom  feels, 
And  woman  trusts  them  all ; 

He  points  her  high  imaginings, 
And  then  permits  their  fall. 

Yet  be  thou  patient,  meek,  and  kind  ; 

And  He  who  formed  the  tie 
Shall  bless  the  effort  to  thy  soul, 

Though  man  its  power  defy  ! 

—  A  tear  !  amid  the  bridal  gems 
Tears  are  not  wont  to  flow  : 

At  such  an  hour,  Hope's  fairy  gleams 
Bid  earth  too  brightly  glow. 

Yet  weep  !     As  falls  the  dew,  at  even, 
Back  whence  it  gently  rose, 

Giving  new  glory  to  the  flower  ; 
My  fervent  prayer  so'  throws 


LOUISA   SIMES.  341 

Those  drops  upon  thy  heart  again, 

To  make  the  pearls  of  life  ; 
For  thou  dost  feel  it  is  not  light 

To  take  the  name  of  wife  ! 


TO  AN  EARLY  ROSE. 

BEAUTIFUL  mingling  of  water  and  dust, 

Oh  !  where  were  thy  glories  hid, 

When  the  branch  which  now  bears  thee  in  fondness 
up 

By  the  wintry  blast  was  laid? 

Wert  thou  there  in  the  fold  of  that  withered  thing, 

Or  down  in  the  frozen  earth  ? 
Or  did  part  of  thee  lie  in  a  wreath  of  snow, 

Which  could  boast  of  a  cloudlet's  birth? 

Wherever  thou  wert,  O  beautiful  Rose  ! 

A  lesson  of  truth  thou  dost  bring, 
For  much  that  seems  dross  to  the  human  eye, 

May  up  into  glory  spring : 

But  thou  hast  been  nought  save  a  simple  bud, 

Through  cloudy  and  sunny  days  ; 
Now  thy  tunic  of  green  on  thy  stem  is  cast, 

And  thou  art  all  fragrance  and  grace. 

So  I,  if  unseared  by  the  world's  bright  sun, 

And  calm  by  its  tempests  driven, 
May  throw  off  my  vestment  of  changing  dust, 

And  bloom  like  thee,  rose,  —  in  heaven. 


342  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


To  J.  K.  C. 

"  We  have  lost  two  sons  in  battle :  were  another  called,  I  would  bid  him  go, 
that  our  country  may  have  power  for  an  honorable  peace."  —  Words  of  a  Mother. 

WHEN  the  strong  staff  is  broken, 

And  the  beautiful  rod  of  trust 
Is  laid,  like  a  withered  token, 

Back,  back,  to  the  pitiless  dust ; 

When  hands,  after  long  sustaining, 

Outreach  for  returning  aid, 
And  only  the  void  remaining 

In  their  trembling  grasp  is  laid  ; 

When  hearts  that  have  warmed  in  the  sunshine 

Of  hope,  on  a  loved  one's  brow, 
Grow  suddenly  chill  in  the  folding 

Of  the  mantle  enwrapping  it  now,  — 

What  word  that  may  reach  benediction, 

/  What  whisper  uprising  to  prayer, 
What  balm  for  the  cup  of  affliction, 
Can  the  breath  of  our  sympathy  bear? 

O  father !  so  brave  in  thy  sorrow, 

O  mother  !  so  calm  in  your  grief, 
From  the  house  of  such  mourning  we  borrow 

The  might  of  your  lofty  belief. 


LOUISA   SIMES.  343 

We  shrink  with  our  poor  consolation, 

We  rise  by  a  faith  so  sublime  : 
Far  more  than  the  soul's  resignation, 

Its  glory  and  triumph  are  thine  ! 

Can  the  spirit  of  sacrifice  falter. 

Can  Freedom  grow  pallid  again, 
When  Pain,  from  her  sanctified  altar, 

Uplifteth  that  hallowed  "  Amen  "  ? 

"  Amen  !   if  by  new  consecration, 

Our  hearts  with  new  anguish  be  torn  : 

We  give  the  word  '  Home '  to  our  Nation, 
Till  of  Purity,  Peace  shall  be  born." 


THE   NEW  YEAR. 

WELCOME,  New  Year  !  what  hast  thou 
For  the  light  of  heart  and  brow? 
Many  an  hour  with  rainbow  wings 
Gayly  tinting  earthly  things? 

Hast  thou  for  the  views  of  youth 
Graver  shadows  cast  by  truth  ? 
Nay,  I  fear  me  they  too  weave 
Webs  which  could  no  blast  survive  ! 

What  of  age !     Hath  all  the  past 
Taught  how  temporal  glories  waste? 
Does  the  dim  eye  turn  from  thee, 
Asking  for  eternity? 


POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Answer  me,  them  New-born  Year  ! 
Hast  them  most  of  hope  or  fear, 
Joy  or  woe,  sweet  peace  or  strife, 
In  thy  store  for  human  life  ? 

"  Listen  !  I  can  only  bring 
Unto  mortals  what  hath  been  ; 
No  new  mission  is  mine  own, 
With  no  stranger  gifts  I  come. 

As  on  tireless  feet  I  range, 
I  must  scatter,  I  must  change  : 
Is  there  gloom  in  my  reply  ?  — 
It  is  life's  reality  ! 

I  the  cherished  flower  shall  crush, 
Which  hath  waked  affection's  gush  ! 
Make  a  stream  of  bitterness, 
That  which  seemed  but  born  to  bless  ! 

To  the  bride  whose  dreams  have  won 
Fairy  visions  of  her  own, 
I  may  bring  the  grief  of  life, 
Wrung  from  a  neglected  wife  ! 

Parents,  round  whose  cheerful  board 
Laughter's  merriest  tone  wras  heard, 
Now  may  list  the  spirit's  moan 
Of  a  household  broken,  —  gone  ! 

Where  Life's  current  gladly  flows, 
Death  shall  seal  a  stern  repose  ; 
Young  and  old,  the  wise  and  gay, 
Swift  with  me  shall  pass  away  ! 


LOUISA  SIMES.  345 

I  new  sepulchres  shall  make 
In  the  heart  that  pines  to  break, 
As  the  silent  host  I  swell 
With  the  loved  and  beautiful ! 

Many,  ay  all,  all  must  know 
Thousand  changes  ere  I  go  ; 
Not  one  bosom  can  retain 
Feelings,  hopes,  and  joys  the  same  ! 

Were  the  world  all  happy  now, 
Sad  would  be  my  journey  through  ; 
But  where  past  made  desolate, 
I  shall  many  a  joy  create  ! 

Doubts  of  truth  shall  pass  away, 
Souls  be  knit  in  constancy,  — 
Erring  ones  to  virtue  turn, 
Healing  what  they've  pierced  again. 

Beauty  shall  from  ashes  rise  ; 
Smiles  shall  light  the  weeper's  eyes  ; 
Many  a  cheek  shall  gain  its  bloom  ; 
Many  a  heart  shall  lose  its  gloom. 

Love  that  could  neglect  defy, — 
Buried  love  that  would  not  die,  — 
Shall  come  forth  to  life  renewed, 
Bright  from  tears  and  solitude  ! 

Hope,  that  dared  not  stir  its  wing, 
To  its  voyage  of  light  shall  spring ; 
Richest  music  shall  be  breathed 
From  the  soul  which  pain  has  writhed ! 


346  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Who  that  lives  would  choose  to  stay 
Where,  and  as  they  are  to-day? 
None  !  for  every  heart  has  set 
Treasures  on  the  distant  yet ! 

Bid  me  welcome  then,  though  change 
Mark  my  broad  and  speedy  range  ; 
For  ye  would  not  ONE  be  blest, 
If  the  present  were  your  rest ! 

Higher  than  the  things  of  time 
Bid  the  undying  soul  to  climb  ! 
Give  it  strength  ;  the  joys  of  earth  ; 
The  deepest  note  woe  utters  forth, — 

All  may  purify  and  bless  ; 
All  may  fit  for  happiness 
In  that  land  of  spirits,  where 
Never  si<rhs  a  chansrinsr  Year  ! ' 


STANZAS. 

li  Thou  renewest  the  face  of  the  earth." 

SWEET  is  the  face  of  earth, 

Which  God  renews  again 

With  the  sunbeam's  lengthened  smile, 

And  the  gently  soothing  rain  ! 

The  laughing  waters  haste 
From  Winter's  bonds  away, 
To  wake  their  song  of  joy 
In  the  valleys  where  they  stray. 


LOUISA   SIMES.  347 

The  foamy  rill  will  die 
To  nurse  the  hidden  flower, 
Which  waits  in  the  bosom  of  earth, 
Like  a  gem,  for  her  festal  hour. 

Sweet  is  the  gracious  light 

Which  bids  the  young  blade  spring, 

And  generous  is  the  air 

Which  buoys  the  songster's  wing. 

The  heirs  of  promise  doubt 
The  fruit  while  the  bud  is  green  ; 
But  the  trusting  bird  will  come 
When  scarce  a  leaf  is  seen. 

They  come,  and  make  their  nests, 
With  songs  of  gladness  now ; 
Nor  shall  they  miss  reward, 
For  green  will  be  the  bough, 

And  softly  sweet  the  path, 
Through  which  the  rays  shall  fall, 
Led  by  the  graceful  leaves, 
From  their  Father's  palace-wall. 

Oh,  earth  and  sea  and  air 
In  the  blessed  sun  are  glad  ! 
The  flowers  and  trees  rejoice, 
One  only  thing  is  sad,  — 

The  heart  of  its  light  bereaved 
Since  last  the  spring-time  came, 
Whose  fondest  hopes  have  fled, 
To  return  no  more  again. 


348  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Oh  !  sad  indeed  it  is 

To  see  from  the  dust  appear 

All  things  to  life  and  bloom, 

But  those  which  the  heart  lays  there  ; 

'Mid  the  voices  of  the  loved, 
To  know  that  one  is  hushed  ; 
To  sigh  'mid  beaming  eyes 
For  those  now  sealed  in  dust ! 

The  wild  with  hope  and  joy, 
And  those  who  prayed  release, 
Pass  on  to  deep  tranquillity, 
Where  life's  strange  throbbings  cease. 

The  sunny  curls  of  youth 
Are  laid  as  moveless  there 
As  are  scattered  locks  of  gray, 
Platted  by  thorny  Care. 

Oh,  earth  and  sea  and  air 
In  the  blessed  sun  are  glad  ! 
The  flowers  and  trees  rejoice  ; 
The  heart  should  not  be  sad. 

Shall  there  not  come  a  Spring 
Bright  with  eternal  flowers, 
Where  the  treasures  of  the  soul 
Shall  be  for  ever  ours  ? 


LOUISA   SIMES.  349 


ONE   IN   SYMPATHY. 

I  HAVE  been  with  thee,  thou  beloved  one, 
With  trackless  footsteps  and  with  voiceless  tone, 
When  slumber's  mantle  lay  about  thy  heart : 
Hast  thou  not  felt  its  foldings  gently  start? 
I  sighed  for  thee. 

I  have  been  near  thee,  when,  with  gladdened  light, 
The  world  has  beamed,  and  all  within  was  bright : 
I  knew  its  transient  radiance,  yet  I  know 
The  depth  to  which  its  milder  rays  may  go,  — 
I  hoped  for  thee. 

I  drew  me  near  thee  when  thy  heaving  breast 
Betrayed  the  billows  of  its  wild  unrest : 
Thy  sorrow,  whatsoe'er  its  cause,  its  course, 
I  shared  in  sympathy,  and  wept  its  force,  — 
I  mourned  with  thee. 

I  would  infold  thee,  if  affliction  chill, 
Or  if  temptation,  deck  the  path  of  ill 
With  mocking  blossoms,  which  at  touching  die  ; 
Kindly  I'd  bend  thy  step,  and  point  thine  eye,  — 
I'd  watch  with  thee. 

Smile  of  God's  spirit !  when,  with  trusting  glance, 
Thou  cleavest  the  cloud  for  thine  inheritance, 
And,  upward  tending  to  the  fount  above, 
Dost  consecrate  thy  life,  thy  heart,  thy  love, 
I'd  pray  with  thee. 


350  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

I  would  be  near  thee  when  life's  jewel  breaks 
From  its  earth-setting,  and  the  dust  forsakes 
What  it  has  shrouded,  but  could  never  mar,  — 
The  glory  of  a  beaming,  quenchless  star  ! 
I'd  soar  with  thee. 

I'd  dwell  with  thee  beloved  in  our  near  home, 
One  Father  and  one  childhood  for  our  own  ! 
One  spirit-note  to  swell  the  blissful  strain 
Of  blended  life,  —  u  Never  to  part  again 
From  Heaven  and  thee  !  " 


LIFE. 

"  The  everlasting  powers  are  twined  into  one  Chord,  and  that  is  —  LIFE." 

LIFE  is  before  us,  —  of  trial  and  trust,  — 

A  voyage  of  the  spirit,  on  pinion  of  dust ; 

Through  clouds,  and  o'er  mountains,  unknown  till  we 

climb, 
And  the  windings  of  peril  beguiling  all  time  ! 

Life  is  around  us,  —  temptation  and  snare  ; 
The  fetter  of  joy  and  the  poison  of  care  ; 
The  music  of  good  and  the  mocking  of  ill ; 
The  weakness  of  wishes,  the  sternness  of  will ; 
The  calmness  of  hope  and  the  tempest  of  fear ; 
The  surges  of  passion,  the  wreck  of  despair ; 
The  staff  of  high  purpose  oft  laid  in  the  sand, 
For  baubles  which  fancy  but  offers  the  hand  ; 
The  flowe'rs  of  beauty,  the  ashes  of  death,  — 
Have  met,  and  are  mingled  ;  and  this  is  life's  wreath  ! 


LOUISA   SIMES.  351 

Life  is  within  us,  —  a  kingdom  of  power 
Whose  strength  is  increased  by  the  need  of  the  hour : 
Life  is  within  us,  through  trial  to  trust,  — 
An  heirship  of  glory,  through  pathway  of  dust. 
Illusion  may  wilder  ;  but  truth  will  reveal, 
If,  piercing  the  outward,  we  seek  the  ideal 
Through  the   silver-toned  whisper  outbreathing  from 

heaven, 

Which  an  infinite  One  to  the  finite  hath  given. 
O  mystical  book  !  where  our  purposes  write 
The  records  of  fate  with  the  pencil  of  light ; 
Where  hope  paints  her  rainbow,  and  sorrow  her  cloud, 
Faith  her  wings  of  ascension,  and  terror  her  shroud  ; 
Where  sadness  may  gather  the  folds  of  despair, 
And  joy's  springs  be  dried  by  the  furnace  of  care  ; 
Where  the  penitent  tear  is  as  bitterly  shed 
O'er  the  darkened  intent  as  the  day-revealed  deed  ; 
Where  love  o'er  the  chaos  may  brood,  and  control 
The  elements'  jar  to  a  musical  whole  ; 
And  the  passions  refined  in  each  note  may  express 
The  fulness  of  life  in  the  anthem  of  peace  ! 

Is  such  life  within  us?  a  God-written  deep 
Which  tempest  may  trouble,  yet  angels  would  keep  ! 
How  clear  should   its  depths  be,  —  how  true  to  the 

light, 

That  its  waters  be  never  a  cradle  of  night, 
But  onward  to  truth,  —  in  the  pathway  of  love, 
It  may  bear  back  its  waves  to  the  ocean  above  ! 
Then,  ashes  of  earth  into  flowers  shall  spring 
To  garland  eternal  the  home-cleaving  wing  ; 
All  the  shadows  of  life  shall  in  brightness  unroll, 
And  cares  stand  revealed  as  the  jewels  of  soul ; 
All  pure  aspirations  shall  bless  as  they  rise, 
For  the  true  voyage  of  life  is  with  God  in  the  skies  ! 


352  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


IT  IS  BETTER  TO  BE  REMEMBERED  IX  THE 
PRAYER  OF  THE  POOR  THAN  IN  THE 
PRAISES  OF  THE  KING. 

Seek  ye  the  Poor  : 
From  cheerful  homes  go  forth, 
Ye  favored,  to  the  suffering  ones  of  earth  ; 
While  Winter  in  his  sternest  mood  is  found, 
Oh,  let  the  summer  of  the  heart  abound  ! 


Give  to  the  Poor  : 
Hath  not  their  toil  procured 

A  thousand  blessings  for  your  hearth  and  board, 
Which  never  come  to  theirs?  Oh,  then,  impart 
Of  your  abundance  to  the  sad  of  heart ! 


Give  to  the  Poor  : 
The  wealth  of  harvest  came 
To  gladden  all :  one  fount  supplied  the  i'ain, 
One  urn  the  sunlight,  let  your  mercies  spread 
The  gifts  of  bounty,  God  hath  richly  shed  ! 


Blend  ivith  the  Poor : 
We  are  one  family, 
Bound  by  one  Father  to  one  destiny : 
Shall  darkness,  penury,  suffering,  on  our  way, 
Mar  the  high  claim  of  our  humanity? 


LOUISA   SIMES.  353 

Plead  for  the  Poor  : 
The  struggles  they  o'ercome, 
Strangers  to  wildering  want  have  never  known  : 
Oh,  save  from  sin  by  charities  of  Heaven 
The  oppressed,  whose  graveward  path  to  gloom   is 


Learn  from  the  Poor  : 
If  it  be  sweet  to  hear 

Praise  from  the  lip,  where  life  hath  given  cheer, 
Hath  it  not  tenfold  sweetness,  tenfold  power, 
Where  hardship,  sorrow,  storm,  their  shadows  lower? 


Learn  from  the  Poor  : 
When  the  full  heart  is  stung 
By  anxious  cares,  and  every  feeling  wrung 
With  sound  and  sight  of  woe,  if  then  there  live 
Virtue,  undimmed,  ivhere  may  she  not  survive  ? 


Learn  from  the  Poor  : 
The  moral  light  they  shed 
Shall  gather  as  a  halo  round  thy  head  ; 
For  meekness,  gratitude,  and  purity 
Glow  from  the  furnace  of  adversity  ! 


Learn  from  the  Poor : 
Glean  of  their  lowliness, 

As  ye  approach  them  with  the  wish  to  bless  ; 
For  gifts  that  perish  with  the  using,  bind 
Their  humble  graces  on  the  heart  and  mind. 

23 


354  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THERE  IS  A  MIGHT  IN  THE  PRESENT,  OF  WHICH 
WE  DREAM  NOT  TILL  IT  BE  PAST. 

TO-MORROW,  ay,  to-morrow  is  the  time  for  which  we 
live ; 

We  sow  not  in  the  present,  for  the  harvest  life  might 
give ; 

And  yesterday,  ay,  yesterday,  with  its  varied  joy  and 
pain, 

Distracts  us  by  its  shadows,  and  we  dwell  in  it  again : 

In  listless  musing  on  the  past,  in  thought  of  what  may 
be, 

We  let  life's  richest  moments  fly,  uncrowned  by  victory 

O'er  passion's  fires,  o'er  fevered  hopes,  o'er  fears  that 
storm  the  soul, 

And  fancies  whose  exuberance  needs  immediate  con 
trol  ! 

Oh !  memory's  thousand  stores  are  dear ;  and  haply 
from  the  past 

Come  lessons  of  experience,  with  the  whispers  of  the 
lost: 

From  out  that  one  deep  fountain  where  such  bitter 
waters  flow 

May  still  be  quaffed  the  sweetest  draughts  the  spirit's 
thirst  can  know ; 

That  one  word  "  gone  "  doth  purify  the  heart's  idola 
tries, 

And  "never  more"  impels  it  on  to  seek  unbreaking 
ties. 


LOUISA  BIMES.  355 

And  that  wide  world  before  us,  to  which  we  well  may 

bear 

The  anguish  of  our  bosoms,  and  lay  it  trusting  there, 
Or,  from  our  joyous  gladness,  anticipate  to  bless 
Those  who  in  quick-toned  sympathy  would  share  our 

happiness,  — 
For  these,  —  for  more,  —  'tis  well  indeed  the  eye  should 

onward  turn  ; 

For  it  lights  life's  holiest  fires,  it  feeds  affection's  urn  : 
The  present  feels  its  touch  of  power,  and,  like  a  harp 

new  strung, 
Gives  out  deep  music  from  the  chords  which  else  had 

silent  hung. 

A  threefold  life  is  ours,  —  the  Past,  the  Future,  and 

the  Now, 
Whereon  is  written,  line  by  line,  our  solemn  journey 

through  : 

It  is  the  future  realized,  it  is  to-morrows  past,  — 
The  bosom  of  an  ebbing  stream,  whose  waves  must 

die  at  last. 

It  is  the  field  of  action  where  all  our  duties  throng, 
Where  Virtue  gathers   priceless   pearls  to   give   her 

golden  crown : 
These  are  the  "few  things"  given,  our  living  faith  to 

prove, 
Which  shall  win  from  Him  who  marks  it,  that  highest 

good,  —  his  love  ! 


356  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


TO   A   FRIEND   IN   SADNESS. 

I  KNOW  that  life  has  never  been 

That  fairy  scene  to  thee, 
Where  skies  are  aye  too  bright  to  weep, 

And  flowers  too  fair  to  die. 

For,  on  thy  heart's  horizon,  oft 
The  threatening  cloud  has  hung ; 

And  leaden-footed  Care  has  crushed 
Hope's  bright  buds  as  they  sprung. 

But  from  the  baptism  of  grief, 

If  faith  hath  risen  strong ; 
And  dying  flowers  have  breathed  to  thee 

That  after-life  their  own  ; 

If  friends,  the  kind,  the  warm,  the  true, 
Have  been  and  still  are  thine,  — 

Oh !  with  these  jewels  spared  the  heart, 
What  can  we  not  resign  ? 

Long  may  these  bless  thee  !  long  mayst  thou 

Their  equal  blessing  be  ! 
To  soothe,  to  comfort,  and  to  cheer, 

Is  no  mean  destiny. 

And  for  each  trial  meekly  borne, 

Each  well-imparted  joy, 
There  beams  new  lustre  on  the  soul, 

Which  time  can  ne'er  destroy. 


LOUISA   SIMES.  357 

Thus  be  ye  brightening  for  that  world 

Where  change  can  never  mar, 
Where  sorrow  could  not  dare  be  guest, 

Nor  bliss  be  wanderer  ! 


"THE   FIRST   GRAY   HAIR." 
To  A.    S.   B. 

WHAT  meaneth  it,  —  that  "  silver  thread" 

Those  rich  dark  locks  among, 
Had  Time  no  veteran  brows  to  wreathe, 

That  he  must  deck  thine  own? 

The  roses  of  youth  have  not  left  thy  cheek, 
Nor  the  sunlight  of  life  thine  eye  ; 

And  still,  as  in  childhood,  on  thy  lip 
Doth  Joy  sit  trustingly. 

The  touch  of  a  spoiler  it  cannot  be  ; 

For  thy  heart  hath  not  chilled  to  care, 
And  its  world  of  affection  is  bright  and  warm 

Then  wherefore  that  "  first  gray  hair"? 

It  may  be  that  Time  hath  weary  grown 

Of  waiting  till  youth  goes  by, 
And  would  give  his  honors  to  worth  alone,  — 

Then  —  could  he  have  slighted  thee? 

My  hope  shall  make  it  an  augury ; 

My  spirit  shall  breathe  its  prayer, 
That  thy  years  into  silver  lines  may  fall, 

Like  the  coming  of  that  gray  hair. 


358  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Life  hath  around  thee  a  garland  cast 

With  buds  for  an  after-bloom  ; 
Blight  be  afar  from  their  delicate  leaves, 

O  * 

In  that  beautiful  garden,  —  home  ! 

The  richest  blessings  to  mortals  given 

Be  ever  with  thee  and  thine  ! 
And  when  age  shall  have  right  to  thy  cheek  and  brow 

And  thy  head  wear  the  crown  of  Time  ; 

Then,  still  as  now,  may  thy  treasured  ties 

Their  strength  and  their  glory  bear  ; 
And  thy  soul  be  reflecting  a  smile  as  sweet 

As  welcomed  that  "  first  gray  hair"  ! 


TO   A  FRIEND  AT  PARTING. 

COULD  human  wisdom  mark  our  path. 

Or  human  wishes  bless, 
Our  skies  would  have  no  lowering  clouds  ; 

Our  earth,  no  wilderness. 

No  purifying  storm  would  come 

Across  the  ocean's  breast : 
To  save  one  little  bark  from  harm 

We'd  give  its  billows  rest ! 

'Tis  wisely  fixed  :  another's  way, 

How  dear  that  other  be, 
We  may  not  plant  with  thornless  flowers, 

Or  I  might  err  for  thee, 


LOUISA   SIMES. 


359 


Making  thy  life  so  beautiful, 

That  them  its  chains  might  love, 

Unlinked  to -that  inheritance 
Awaiting  thee  above  ! 


ELIZA     O.     SHORES, 


BORN  SEPT.  14,  1796 ;  DIED  FEB.  3,  1863. 


ON   VISITING   THE  SCENES   OF   EARLY   LIFE. 


O  scenes,  to  friends  in  childhood  dear, 
In  after-life  we  fondly  stray  : 
But,  oh,  how  sad  these  scenes  appear, 
When  those  loved  friends  have  passed  away 


With  pensive  pleasure  we  renew 
Acquaintance  with  the  dreamy  past ; 
And,  as  the  picture  starts  to  view, 
We  wish  it  would  for  ever  last. 

We  wander  o'er  the  well-known  sward 
Where  we  in  childhood  loved  to  play  ; 
Where  mother's  kiss,  that  best  reward, 
Could  lure  us  from  our  sports  away ; 

With  chastened  hearts  bend  o'er  the  spot 
Where  friends  beloved  now  sleep  in  death. 
(No  :  there  the  spirit  slumbereth  not : 
'Tis  but  their  dust  that  rests  beneath.) 


ELIZA   0.   SHORES.  361 

We  seek  a  flower,  —  a  sprig  of  green, 
Which  we,  when  far  away,  may  view  ; 
A  something  to  be  touched  and  seen, 
That  may  our  early  days  renew. 

This  blade  of  grass,  these  fading  leaves, 
Are  all  the  barren  sod  would  yield  ; 
But  to  my  heart  more  dear  they  are 
Than  gorgeous  lilies  of  the  field. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 

TIME  with  untiring  wing  has  brought 
Another  solemn  space  for  thought : 
Pause,  O  my  soul !  reflect,  and  hear 
The  record  of  the  dying  year. 
Say,  does  it  speak  of  duties  done, 
Temptations  met,  of  victories  won? 
Of  secret  sins  subdued  and  slain, 
For  ever  vanquished  to  remain  ? 
Of  love  to  man,  that  thinks  no  ill, 
But  loves  him,  though  ungrateful  still? 
Unwearied  seeks  his  present  good, 
And  feeds  his  soul  with  lasting  food  ? 
Of  trust  in  Heaven,  which,  firm  and  sure, 
Sees  God  in  all,  and  rests  secure? 

Or  does  the  faithful  register 
Show  thee  still  weak,  and  prone  to  err? 
Knowing  the  right,  yet  following  still 
The  dictates  of  thy  wayward  will  ? 


362  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Remiss  in  duty,  far  from  God, 
Unmindful  of  his  gracious  word? 
Though  fair  to  men,  dost  thou  appear 
To  God,  "a  whited  sepulchre," 
To  whom  the  unerring  Judge  will  say, 
Thou  painted  hypocrite,  away? 

Say,  O  my  soul !  say,  dost  thou  fear 
Time's  long  and  dread  account  to  hear? 
If  so,  arise,  repent  and  pray, 
Nor  let  another  New- Year's  Day 

J 

Find  thee  still  far  from  God  and  Heaven, 
Thy  many  sins  yet  unforgiven  ; 
Awake,  and  in  Christ's  strength  arise, 
And  strive  to  win  the  immortal  prize  ! 

Then,  if  another  dying  year, 
Shall  find  thee  still  a  pilgrim  here, 
Time's  record  thou  mayst  hear  with  joy  ; 
For  nought  will  then  thy  peace  annoy. 


•    THE   HOUR-GLASS. 

THE  hour-glass  on  the  desk  is  placed, 

Its  sands  are  gliding  through  ; 
And  silently,  but  solemnly, 

It  speaks  to  me  and  you. 
It  tells  us  that  our  term  of  years 

Is  made  of  fleeting  hours, 
That  soon  —  ah  !  soon  —  they  pass  away 

As  do  the  early  flowers  : 


ELIZA   0.   SHORES.  363 

That  as  in  youth  the  sands  run  slow, 

While  we  impatient  wait, 
As  life  advances,  they  too  glide 

With  step  accelerate  ; 
Till,  as  we  near  "life's  western  gate," 

More  swiftly  still  they  run, 
As  down  behind  the  distant  hills 

Swift  sinks  the  setting  sun. 
A  lesson  fraught  with  import  may 

Thus  to  our  hearts  be  given  ; 
And  from  the  hour-glass  we  may  learn 

To  use  our  time  for  heaven  ; 
That  when  the  sands  have  all  run  through, 

The  spirit's  time-work  done, 
Our  souls  may  rise  to  glory  too, 

As  mounts  the  rising  sun. 


WILLIAM    B.     TAP  PAN. 


BORN  IN  1795;  DIED  IN  JULY,  1849. 


THE   OLD   NORTH   BURIAL   GROUND   IN   PORTS 
MOUTH,   N.H. 


STAND  where  I  have  stood  before  in  boy 
hood's  sunny  prime,  — 
The  same,  yet  not  the  same,  but  one  who 

wears  the  touch  of  Time,  — 
And  gaze  around  on  what  was  then  familiar  to  the 

eye, 

But  whose   inconstant  features   tell   that  years   have 
journeyed  by, 


Since,  o'er    this  venerable    ground,  a    truant   child  I 

played, 
And  chased  the  bee   and  plucked  the  flower  where 

ancient  dust  is  laid  ; 
And  hearkened,  in  my  wondering  mood,  when  tolled 

the  passing  bell ; 
And  started  at  the  coffin's  cry  as  clods  upon  it  fell. 


WILLIAM  B.   TAPPAN.  365 

These  mossy  tombs  I  recollect,  the  same  o'er  which  I 
pored  ; 

The  same  these  rhymes  and  texts  with  which  my 
memory  was  stored  ; 

These  humble  tokens,  too,  that  lean,  and  tell  where 
resting  bones 

Are  hidden,  though  their  date  and  name  have  per 
ished  from  the  stones. 


How  rich  these  precinc~ts  with  the  spoils  of  ages 
buried  here ! 

What  hearts  have  ached,  what  eyes  have  given  this 
conscious  earth  the  tear  ! 

How  many  friends,  whose  welcome  cheered  their  now- 
deserted  doors, 

Have,  since  my  last  sojourning,  swelled  these  melan 
choly  stores ! 


Yon  spot,  where  in  the  sunset  ray  a  single  white  stone 

gleams, 

I've  visited,  I  cannot  tell  how  often,  in  my  dreams, — 
That  spot  o'er  which  I  wept,  though  then  too  young 

my  loss  to  know, 
As  I  beheld  my  father's  form  sepulchred  far  below. 


How  freshly  every  circumstance,  though  seas  swept 

wide  between, 
And  years  have  vanished  since  that  hour,  in  vagaries 

I've  seen  !  — 

The  lifted  lid,  that  countenance,  the  funeral  array,  — 
As  vividly  as  if  the  scene  were  but  of  yesterday. 


366  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

How  pleasant  seem  the  moments  now,   as  up   their 

shadows  come, 
Spent  in  the  domicile  that  wore  the  sacred  name  of 

home  !  — 
How,  in  the  vista  years  have  made,  they  shine  with 

mellowed  light, 
To  which  meridian  bliss  has  nought  so  beautiful  and 

bright ! 


How  happy  were  those  fireside  hours,   how  happy 

summer's  walk, 
When  listening  to  my  father's  words,  or  joining  in  the 

talk ! 
How  passed  like  dreams  those  early  hours,  till  down 

upon  us  burst 
The  avalanche  of  grief,  and  laid  our  pleasures  in  the 

dust ! 


They  tell  of  loss ;  but  who  can  tell  how  thorough  is 

the  stroke 
By  which  the  tie  of  sire  and  son  in  death's  for  ever 

broke  ? 
They  tell  of  Time  !  —  though  he  may  heal  the  heart 

that's  wounded  sore, 
The  household  bliss  thus  blighted,  Time  !  canst  thou 

again  restore? 


Yet  if  this  spot  recalls  the  dead,  and  brings  from  Mem 
ory's  leaf 

A  sentence  wrote  in  bitterness,  of  raptures  bright  and 
brief, 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  367 

I  would  not  shun  it,  nor  would  lose  the  moral  it  will 

give 
To  teach  me,  by  the  withered  Past,  for  better  hopes  to 

live. 


And  though  to  warn  of  future  woe,  or  whisper  future 

bliss, 
One  comes  not  from  the  spirit-world,  a  witness  unto 

this  ; 
Yet,  from  memorials  of  his  dust,  'tis  wholesome  thus 

to  learn, 
And  print  upon  our  thought  the  state  to  which  we 

must  return. 


Wherever  then  my  pilgrimage  in  coming  days  shall  be, 
My  frequent  visions,  favorite  ground  !   shall  backward 

glance  to  thee  : 
The  holy  dead,  the  by-gone  hours,  the  precepts  early 

given, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe  and  influence  my  homeward  way 

to  heaven. 


AN  OATH   ON  WOMAN'S  LIPS! 

THOUGH  pouting  out  with  youth  and  health, 
'Twould  blast  their  rich  and  tempting  red  : 
I  cannot  join  such  living  wealth 
Of  sweets  with  what  is  sour  and  dead. 


368  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

An  oath  on  woman's  lips  !  —  let  man 
Touch  rudely  strings  that  jar  above  : 
She  snaps  the  cord  and  breaks  the  plan 
Of  Heaven  by  other  word  than  Love. 

An  oath  on  woman's  lips  !  —  in  vain 
Her  eyes  are  starry  woi'lds  of  light ; 
Her  voice  as  when  soft  lyres  complain  ; 
Her  skin  of  the  celestial  white  : 

'Tis  lost  to  me.     She  only  seems 

The  twofold  wonder  fables  tell, 

That  charm  and  fright  the  sleeper's  dreams, 

An  angel,  and  a  fiend  of  hell. 


GETHSEMANE. 

'Tis  midnight,  —  and  on  Olive's  brow 
The  star  is  dimmed  that  lately  shone  ; 
'Tis  midnight,  —  in  the  garden  now 
The  suffering  Saviour  prays  alone. 

'Tis  midnight,  —  and,  from  all  removed, 
Immanuel  wrestles,  lone,  with  fears  : 
E'en  the  disciple  that  he  loved 
Heeds  not  his  Master's  grief  and  tears. 

'Tis  midnight,  —  and  for  others'  guilt 
The  Man  of  sorrows  weeps  in  blood  ; 
Yet  He  that  hath  in  anguish  knelt 
Is  not  forsaken  by  his  God. 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  369 

'Tis  midnight,  —  from  the  heavenly  plains 
Are  borne  the  songs  that  angels  know  : 
Unheard  by  mortals  are  the  strains 
That  sweetly  soothe  the  Saviour's  woe. 


WALKING   ON  THE   SEA. 
* 

TIBERIAS  battles  with  the  storm  ; 

And  hark  !   its  waters  cry 
To  weeping  winds,  that  answer  give 

From  out  the  troubled  sky. 

And,  lo !  upon  its  raving  tide, 

How  awfully  serene 
He  walks,  who,  in  the  furnace,  once, 

Unscathed  the  "  Fourth  "  was  seen. 

He  walks  the  waves  !  —  the  rebel  waves 

In  deep  submission  lie  ; 
The  wild  winds  hear  his  tread,  and  cease 

When  Jesus  passes  by. 

And  in  my  spirit  lurks  a  storm  : 

Here  chafes  the  angry  sea  ; 
And  wild  winds  here  lift  up  their  voice, 

And  rage  continually. 

• 
Rebuke  these  waves,  Redeemer  !  they 

Shall  slumber  at  thy  call ; 
Oh,  move  amid  these  winds  !  —  the  winds 

Shall  at  thy  pi'esence  fall ! 
24 


370  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THERE   IS   AN   HOUR   OF   PEACEFUL   REST. 

THERE  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 

To  mourning  wanderers  given  ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed ; 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast,  — 

'Tis  found  alone  in  Heaven.  «• 

Thei-e  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

Far  from  these  shades  of  even  ; 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 

And  find  repose  —  in  Heaven. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven  ; 
When  tossed  on  Life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise,  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear,  —  'tis  Heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given, 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 

And  all  serene  in  Heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers  immortal  blooin, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given  ; 
There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom  : 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 

Appears  the  dawn  of  Heaven. 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  371 


FOR   AMERICA. 

GOD  of  earth,  the  only  Ruler, 
Why  should  earth  forget  thee  so  ? 

God  of  nations,  shall  the  nations 
Thee,  their  only  Ruler,  know  ? 

Old  dominions,  proud  dominions, 
How  they  rose,  the  boast  of  men  ! 

But  they  knew  not  God,  and  therefore 
Sank  they  into  dust  again. 

Where  art  thou,  imperial  Tyre,  — 

City  from  the  ocean  won? 
Hundred-gated  Thebes  and  Memphis, 

Nineveh  and  Babylon  ? 

God,  how  slow  to  learn  are  nations  ! 

Else  should  ive  have  spelled  thy  name, 
In  their  end  have  read  thine  anger : 

Grant  that  ours  be  not  the  same  ! 

New  Republics,  great  Republics, 
Homes  of  free  and  fearless  men, 

As  the  ancient,  proud  dominions, 
Thou  wilt  sink  to  dust  again, 

If  they  know  thee  not.  O  Ruler, 
Let  not  ours  forget  Thee  so  ; 

God  of  nations,  let  our  nation 
Thee,  its  only  Ruler,  know  ! 


372  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE  WEST. 
Valley  of  the  Mississippi. 

O  YE  to  whom  God's  word  reveals  its  privileges  blest, 

Who  hold  the  pearl  without  a  price,  —  think,  think 
upon  the  West ! 

And  think,  as  every  precious  boon  of  Heaven  comes 
up  in  view, 

Of  those  that  dwelt  where  now  ye  dwell,  that  wor 
shipped  once  with  you. 

For  we  have  left  our  sunbright  homes,  the  scenes  of 
early  day, 

Our  pleasant  hearths,  and  all  we  loved,  to  wander  far 
away 

In  wilds  where  voice  of  Sabbath  bell  breaks  not  upon 
the  air ; 

Where  lifted  not  are  hands  in  pi'aise,  nor  bent  the  knee 
in  prayer ; 

And  where  come  o'er  the  laboring  heart  its  white- 
winged,  happy  hours, 

While  warm  tears  gush,  a  tribute  given  to  light  that 
once  was  ours. 

O  ye  who  prize  the  heavenly  light  lit  up  within  the 
breast, 

Think  what  it  is  to  mourn  it  quenched ;  oh,  think 
upon  the  West ! 


The  past !  —  we  fain  would  dwell  upon  the  pages  of 

the  past, 
Though  sad  it  is  to  read  of  joys  too  beautiful  to  last ; 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  373 

Yet   we   will    yield   in  thought    again    unto    his    fond 

caress, 
Who  listened  to  our  lisping  prayer,  and  said  that  God 

would  bless  ; 
Ay,  and  we  feel  the   mother's  kiss,  which  only  she 

could  give, 
When  teaching  us  to  bow  the  heart  to.  Him  who  bade 

us  live  : 
We  think,  too,  of  the  white-haired  man  who  chid  our 

careless  youth, 
And  well  remember  where   his  lips  dropped  sacred 

words  of  truth, 
And  sadly  comes  to  aching  thought,  with   memory's 

quickened  power, 
The    Bible   class,    the   Sunday   school,    and    Prayer's 

rejoicing  hour  ! 
O  ye  who  revel  in  their  light,  who  hear  the  gospel 

blest, 
Give  praise  to  God,  and  succor  here,  —  oh,  think  upon 

the  West ! 


Here,  where  tall  forests  wave  their  tops,  the  wild  beast 

hath  his  den  ; 
The  eagle  hath  her  eyry  built,  unknown  to  steps  of 

men  ; 
And  small  birds  hang  their  mossy  nests  on   many  a 

branching  limb, 
And  yield,  at  evening's  peaceful  hour,  their  pure  and 

joyous  hymn  : 
But  rise  for  us  no  temple-walls,  nor  points  the  spire  to 

heaven, 
And  many  faint  for  Bread  of  Life,  —  to  break  it  none 

are  given  ! 


374  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Oft,  too,  by  men  who  lust  for  gain,  these  solitudes  are 
trod, 

Who  cast  off  fear,  refrain  from  prayer,  foes  to  them 
selves  and  God : 

The  stillness  of  these  lovely  vales  is  broken  by  their 
curse ; 

By  reckless  sires  the  children  led,  soon  wax  from  bad 
to  worse. 

O  ye  that  hail  the  Sabbath  morn,  ye  with  the  Bible 
blest, 

Speed,  speed  the  Rose  of  Sharon  here,  to  blossom  in 
the  West ! 


THE  ANGEL'S   WING. 

There  is  a  German  tradition,  that,  when  a  sudden  silence  takes  place  in  a  com 
pany,  an  angel  at  that  moment  makes  a  circuit  among  them  ;  and  the"  first  person 
who  breaks  the  silence  is  supposed  to  have  been  touched  by  the  wing  of  the  pass 
ing  seraph. 

AND  why  should  Wisdom  smile  at  this? 

Are  not  those  perfecl  beings  nigh, 
To  witness  and  to  share  our  bliss, 

To  hear  and  hush  the  secret  sigh  ? 
Yes  :  they  may  heaven's  solace  bring  ; 
Then  scorn  not  thou  the  Angel's  Wing ! 

Thou  who,  alone,  thyself  dost  deem 

A  solitary  in  thy  grief,  — 
List !  soft  as  footfall  of  a  dream 

Comes  one  to  bear  thee  sweet  relief; 
And  fled  is  all  thy  hoarded  care  : 
The  passing  Seraph's  Wing  is  there  ! 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  375 

Thou  who,  forgiven,  dost  possess 

The  penitent's  intense  delight, 
When  the  dark  cloud  of  guilt's  distress 

Reveals  to  thee  its  edge  of  light,  — 
Think,  as  unhallowed  tempests  fly, 
Thy  soul  is  touched,  the  Wing  is  nigh  ! 

And  thou  of  contemplative  mood, 

Who  dost  at  eve  in  wild- woods  stray. 

Where  nought  of  this  world  may  intrude, 
When  fancy  might  in  others  play  ; 

And  hearest  the  voice  that  zephyr  flings,  — 

No  !  'tis  the  rush  of  Angel  Wings. 

Oh  !  I  have  paused  a  space  as  'twere 
Bewildering  thoughts  to  gather  up, 

To  put  aside  the  draught  of  Care, 
And  taste  of  Mind's  exalted  cup  ; 

Nor  knew  what  o'er  my  soul  could  bring 

Such  calmness,  —  'twas  the  Seraph's  Wing. 

When  brooding  tempters  caused  me  shame, 

And,  in  its  company  of  sin, 
My  spirit  sat,  the  tAngel  came, 

And  swept  with  wings  the  heart  within  ; 
A  moment  made  its  circuit  there, 
And  broke  my  silence  into  prayer. 

I  knelt  beside  my  precious  boy, 

Who  went  at  childhood's  fairy  time,  — 

My  hope,  my  life,  my  being's  joy,  — 
From  this  to  Love's  unclouded  clime  ; 

And,  while  around  wept  pitying  men,  . 

Rejoiced,  —  the  Angel  touched  me  then  ! 


376  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  at  my  own  departing  hour, 
When  earth  recedes  and  follies  fly, 

To  comfort  me  with  heavenly  power 
Descend  !  some  Herald  of  the  sky  ; 

And,  while  of  victory  I  sing, 

Bear  me  away  on  upward  wing ! 


THE    NATIVITY. 

JUDAEA'S  plains  in  silence  sleep 
Beneath  the  cloudless  midnight  sky, 
And  o'er  their  flocks  the  shepherds  keep 
Kind  watch,  to  David's  city  nigh  : 
That  royal  city  !  —  nobler  Guest 
Is  she  awhile  to  entertain 
Than  proudest  monarch,  whose  behest 
It  is  o'er  earthly  realms  to  reign. 
By  him  salvation  is  to  mortals  given, 
On  earth  is  shed  the  peerless  noon  of  Heaven. 

* 

For,  see  !  along  the  deep-blue  arch 
A  glory  breaks  ;  and  now  a  throng, 
From  where  the  sparkling  planets  march, 
Comes  trooping  down  with  shout  and  song ; 
And  o'er  those  pastures,  bathed  in  light, 
The  sacred  legions  stay  their  wing, 
While  on  the  wakeful  ear  of  Night 
Steals  the  rich  hymn  that  seraphs  sing. 
And  sweetly  thus  the  mellow  accents  ran, 
"  Glory  to  God,  good-will  and  peace  to  man  !  " 


WILLIAM  B.    TAPPAN.  377 


WAKE,    ISLES   OF  THE   SOUTH. 

Written  November,  1819,  on  occasion  of  the  departure  from  the  United  States  of 
the  first  Missionary  band  for  the  Sandwich  Islands. 

WAKE,  Isles  of  the  South  !  your  redemption  is  near  ; 
No  longer  repose  on  the  borders  of  gloom  : 
The  Strength  of  His  chosen  in  love  will  appear, 
And  light  shall  arise  on  the  verge  of  the  tomb. 

The  billows  that  gird  ye,  the  wild  waves  that  roar, 
The  zephyrs  that  play  when  the  ocean-storms  cease, 
Shall  bear  the  rich  freight  to  your  desolate  shore, 
Shall  waft  the  glad  tidings  of  pardon  and  peace. 

On  the  Islands  that  sit  in  the  regions  of  night, 
The  lands  of  despair,  to  oblivion  a  prey, 
The  morning  will  open  with  healing  and  light, 
The  glad  Star  of  Bethlehem  will  usher  the  Day. 

The  altar  and  idol  in  dust  overthrown, 
The  incense  forbade  that  was  offered  in  blood, 
The  Priest  of  Melchizedek  there  shall  atone, 
And  the  shrines  of  Hawaii  be  sacred  to  God  ! 

The  Heathen  will  hasten  to  welcome  the  time 
The  day-spring  the  prophet  in  vision  once  saw, 
When  the  beams  of  Messiah  shall  gladden  each  clime, 
And  the  Isles  of  the  Ocean  shall  wait  for  his  law. 

And  thou,  Obookiah  !  now  sainted  above, 

Wilt  rejoice  as  the  heralds  their  mission  disclose  ; 

And  the  prayer  will  be  heard  that  the  land  thou  didst 

love 
May  blossom  as  Sharon,  and  bud  as  the  Rose  ! 


378  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


THE   THUNDER-STORM. 

THE  storm  is  up  !  —  along  the  sky 
Swiftly  the  ebon  rack  is  driven  ; 
And,  look  !  yon  curling  cloud  floats  nigh, 
Charged  with  the  panoply  of  heaven  ; 
It  rends,  and,  gathering  to  a  heap, 
Of  angry  billows  takes  the  form  : 
How  troubled  is  that  upper  deep  ! 
God  !  thou  art  awful  in  thy  storm. 


'Tis  past,  —  and,  see  !  o'er  fields  again 
Sunbeams  their  laughing  light  unfold  ; 
On  tower  and  tree  the  sparkling  rain 
Drops  like  a  shower  of  molten  gold  ; 
On  yonder  hill-top  rests  the  bow, 
The  air  is  redolent  of  balm  : 
How  bright  is  all  above,  below  ! 
God  !  thou  art  glorious  in  thy  calm. 


So  when  the  tempest  shrouds  my  skies, 
And  grief  holds  empire  in  my  soul, 
I  see  the  desolation  rise, 
The  waves  already  o'er  me  roll : 
Thou  speak'st,  and,  like  a  tender  sire, 
Thou  dost  thy  child's  frail  fears  reprove. 
Lofty  art  thou  when  storms  retire  : 
God  !  thou  art  dearer  in  thy  love. 


JAMES    P.     WALKER. 


SEVEN   YEARS   TO-DAY. 

IS  seven  years,  my  love,  to-day, 

Since,  hand  in  hand,  we  started, 
In  faith,  to  tread  life's  devious  way, 
Till  we  by  death  are  parted. 


And,  God  be  thanked  !  —  though  Fortune's  smile 

Our  pathway  has  not  lighted  ; 
And  many  hopes,  indulged  long  while, 

Have  ruthlessly  been  blighted,  — 

We're  spared  to  one  another  yet, 

And  blessed  with  "  troops  of  friends  ;  " 

No  daily  want  has  not  been  met ; 
And,  thanks  to  Him  who  sends 

Life's  choicest  blessings,  —  love  and  hope  ! 

We  are  stronger  now  to  bear, 
And  abler  with  life's  ills  to  cope, 

Than  if  we'd  known  no  care. 


380  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  though  those  ills  we  may  not  cure, 

Nor  taste  unanxious  rest, 

,     With  the  "  kings  and  priests  of  literature  " 
Our  constant  welcome  guests,  — 

With  childhood's  laugh,  domestic  peace, 

And  ready  willing  hands, 
We  murmur  not,  though  no  increase 

Is  ours,  of  "  house  or  lands." 

MARCH  17,  1859. 


NEW    FRIENDS     AND     OLD. 
An  Album  Dedication. 

As  the  generous  fruit  of  the  vine 

Is  enriched  by  added  years  ; 

As  fire  will  gold  refine, 

Till  each  vestige  of  dross  disappears : 
So  time  is  the  lover's  test ; 
And  the  heats  of  adversity  prove 
That  old  and  tried  friends  are  the  best, 
However  our  fancy  may  rove. 


As  of  flowers  the  odor  is  sweetest, 
While  still  with  the  morning  dew  wet ; 
And,  of  the  family  group,  it  is  meetest 
That  the  youngest  should  ever  be  pet : 

So  fresh  love  some  chord  may  awaken 

Which  vibrated  never  before  ; 

And  to  hearts  which  bereavement  hath  shaken, 

New  friendship  lost  peace  may  restore. 


JAMES  P.    WALKER.  381 

Then  we'll  cordially  welcome  the  new, 

While  yet  firmly  retaining  the  old  ; 

Let  fortune  prove  fickle  or  true, 

We  have  treasures  more  precious  than  gold. 

But  the  future  we  may  not  command, 

And  the  past  to  the  present  gives  place  ; 

Death  stiffens  the  readiest  hand, 

And  darkness  the  sunniest  face  : 


Since  the  substance  so  surely  must  fade, 

At  least  let  the  shadow  be  spared  ; 

And  here  let  the  record  be  made 

Of  delights  which  affection  hath  shared. 
No  vain  tribute  to  beauty  or  pride, 
Which  melt  at  the  touch  of  old  age, 
But  TO  VIRTUE  AND  WORTH,  which  abide, 

WE    DEDICATE    EVERY    PAGE. 


NECESSITIES   AND   LUXURIES. 

'  Give  me  but  the  luxuries  of  life,  I  will  do  without  the  necessities.' 

How  needs  of  sense  and  senseless  needs 

Enthrall  our  human  kind  ! 
The  nobler  wants,  alas  !  who  pleads, 

Of  heart,  or  taste,  or  mind? 

The  claims  of  appetite,  and  all 

That  helps  the  body's  ease, 
Necessities  of  life  we  call ; 

All  else,  its  luxuries. 


38£  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

What  fashion  dictates  or  decrees 
In  manners,  dress,  or  home, 

Are  manifest  necessities ; 
And  luxury  must  succumb. 

For  luxuries  of  art,  too  poor  ! 

Necessities  take  all : 
Persian  or  Brussels  on  the  floor, 

And  nothing  on  the  wall ! 

An  idle  luxury  to  read  ; 

To  spend  for  books  a  sin  : 
Small  care,  so  fashion  cover  the  head, 

How  empty  'tis  ivithin  I 

That  hospitality's  too  great 

A  luxury,  we  own, 
Unless  the  necessary  plate 

And  china  can  be  shown. 

Must  social  life  become  a  cheat, 
And  friendship  a  pretence  ! 

Measured  by  what  one  has  to  eat, 
And  governed  by  expense  ! 

Might  not  a  cultivated  mind, 

An  hospitable  heart, 
The  treasures  of  a  taste  refined, 

Enable  one  to  part 

With  e'en  some  "  necessary"  things, 
Deemed  such  by  shallow  pride  ? 

These  needs  of  life  oft  take  to  wings, 
While  luxuries  abide. 


JAMES  P.    WALKER.  383 

Be  to  your  friends  a  feast  yourself, 

When  any  chance  to  call ; 
Have  "  Lamb  "  and  "  Bacon  "  on  the  she/f, 

And  "  plates  "  upon  the  wall : 

Then,  though  your  larder  should  be  lean, 

All  your  appointments  plain, 
Play  thou  the  host  with  mind  serene  : 

Be  sure  they'll  come  again ! 

The  luxuries  of  life  grant  me,  — 

An  understanding  mind, 
A  heart  to  feel,  an  eye  to  see 

Beauties  of  every  kind  : 

From  those  whose  fadeless  glories  bright 

The  universe  adorn,  . 
The  matchless  wonders  of  the  night, 

The  splendors  of  the  morn, 

The  emerald  turf,  the  towering  tree, 

Bird,  insect,  flower,  and  vine, 
The  placid  lake,  the  boundless  sea, 

Symbol  of  love  divine  : 

To  those  of  literature  and  art, 

Painted  or  pictured  thought, 
The  subtler  beauties  of  the  heart 

With  noble  deeds  inwrought. 

Possessed  of  these,  I'm  rich  indeed  ; 

And  welt  may  I  despise 
The  claims  of  fashion,  sense,  or  greed,  — 

All  false  "  necessities." 


384  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


TO   LILLIE   G- 


DEAR  LILLIE,  I've  read  your  Album  through, 

From  titlepage  to  "  finis  ;  " 
I  find  you're  "  fair"  and  "  wise  "  and  "  true," 

"  Good-tempered,"  "  loving,"  "  guileless." 

I  find  no  end  of  wishes  kind, 

No  lack  of  blessings  prayed  for  ; 
Which  clearly  prove  your  friends  not  blind 

To  what  an  Album's  made  for. 

Have  admonitions,  ranging,  say,  — 

Diverse  opinion  showing,  — 
From  "  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may," 

To  "  Now's  the  time  for  sowing." 

Abundant  store  of  cautions,  too, 

Of  warning,  hint,  suggestion, 
And  all  that  sage  advice  can  do 

To  pi'oduce  a  moral  congestion. 

To  all  this  store  of  kindly  phrase, 

Heaped  in  o'erflowing  measure, 
My  friend,  what  word  of  mine,  or  praise, 

Can  magnify  your  treasure  ? 

In  vain  I  search  with  anxious  care, 

No  love  can  better  the  best : 
Be  this  my  comprehensive  prayer 

"  AMEN  TO  ALL  THE  REST  !  " 


JAMES  P.    WALKER.  385 


TO  MY  WIFE. 
With  a  Seal-ring,  enclosing  tvjo  Locks  of  Hair. 

ACCEPT,  dear  wife,  this  token 
Of  the  living  and  the  lost, 
And  cherish  in  remembrance 
Of  the  two  who  love  you  most. 

Purer  than  its  crystal, 
More  precious  than  the  gold, 
Is  her  memory  that  tenderly 
Within  our  hearts  we  hold. 


25 


MRS.    CAROLINE  E.    WHITON. 


MAY. 

H  !  the  air  is  laden  with  a  rich  perfume 
From    a    shower    of   blossoms    prophesying 

June  ; 
And  the  sweet  anemones,  hidden  where  they 

grow, 

Kiss  the  purple  violets  with  their  lips  of  snow : 
From  the  damp  earth  rises  vapor  full  of  Spring ; 
And  a  perfect  freshness  is  on  every  thing. 

Beautifully  azure  is  the  sky  serene  ; 
Only  a  few  fleecy,  floating  clouds  are  seen  ; 
And  the  soft  wind  stirring,  playing  in  the  trees, 
Makes  the  sunshine  ripple  into  golden  seas ; 
And  the  lights  and  shadows  seem  to  rise  and  fall 
With  the  pulse  of  Nature  beating  through  it  all. 

And  the  distant  spires,  catching  up  the  light, 
Flash  a  crystal  glory  on  my  dazzled  sight : 
I  can  see  the  river  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
And  the  distant  hill-tops,  rearing  one  by  one  : 
Full  of  wonder  stand  I,  drinking  in  the  whole, 
While  a  flood  of  silence  falls  upon  my  soul. 


MRS.   CAROLINE  E.    WHITON.  387 

From  the  waving  pine-trees  to  the  waving  grass, 
I  can  see  the  squirrels  as  they  downward  pass  ; 
And  the  early  robin,  stretching  out  its  wings, 
Shaking  off  the  dewdrops  as  it  soaring  sings  ; 
And  the  gurgling  waters,  running  cool  and  sweet, 
Drop  their  silver  music  at  my  lingering  feet. 

In  the  deepest  shadow  of  a  leafy  dell, 

Something  seems  to  murmur  like  the  sighing  of  a  shell : 

Perhaps  it  is  the  petals,  bursting  into  sight, 

Ringing  out  their  odors  with  a  soft  delight ; 

Or,  perhaps,  the  bushes  on  the  mossy  ground, 

When  their  leaves  entangle,  shiver  into  sound. 

Hark !  the  undertone  is  swelling  up  to  me, 
Swelling  through  the  silence  like  a  distant  sea  ; 
Waves  in  solemn  surges  break  upon  the  shore, 
In  eternal  motion  beating  evermore  : 
Through  the  distance  look  I,  but  I  look  in  vain  ; 
This  mysterious  murmur  I  cannot  explain. 

Be  the  revelation  whatsoe'er  it  may, 
I  have  lived  a  life-time  in  one  perfect  day. 
May  preludes  the  Summer,  so  the  poets  sing ; 
But  my  heart  is  beating  to  the  heart  of  Spring : 
Hush  !  the  tears  are  falling ;  but  they  fall,  I  see, 
Into  countless  prisms,  catching  light  from  thee. 

With  a  rainbow  glory  always  on  my  sky, 

Springs  may  bloom  and  wither,  this  one  cannot  die ; 

Never  day  in  Summer  can  be  half  as  bright, 

Never  fall  of  music  as  ecstatic  quite  : 

In  this  one  sweet  picture  all  the  tints  are  fast ; 

It  will  live  for  ever ;  Heaven  will  touch  it  last. 


388  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


SUMMER   SUNSET. 

I  WATCHED  the  golden  Summer  sun 
Fade  slowly  down  behind  the  sea,  — 

God's  token  that  the  day  was  done 
In  crimson  flushing  left  to  me. 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  skies ; 

My  heart  was  dropping  noiseless  tears 
For,  ah  !  I  thought  of  closing  eyes, 

Whose  lids  I  have  not  kissed  for  years. 

Oh  !  softly  as  the  setting  sun, 
My  darlings  sank  behind  the  sea,  — 

God's  token  that  his  peace  was  won, 
The  looks  of  glory  left  to  me. 

By  that  seraphic  light  which  fell 

Ineffably  divine  and  sweet, 
I  know,  beyond  the  soul's  farewell, 

Behind  the  sea,  that  we  shall  meet. 


AUTUMN   SUNSET. 


THERE  is  a  pathos  in  the  Autumn  sun, 

That  reddens  as  it  lingers  in  the  west ; 
And  gorgeous  leaves,  that,  crimsoning  one  by  one, 
Drop  slowly  into  rest. 


MES.   CAROLINE  E.    WHITON.  389 

The  tops  of  silver  poplars,  and  the  elms, 
Are  lifted  into  such  a  rapturous  glow, 
It  seems  as  if  from  some  enchanted  realms 
The  light  had  dropped  below. 

The  dying  flush  that  bathes  the  hills  serene, 

And  leaves  a  purple  glory  on  the  sky, 
Is  like  the  rapture  that  is  often  seen 
Ere  immortality. 

The  leaves  so  crisp,  that  rustle  to  the  ground, 

Are  like  the  requiems  of  the  soul's  farewell : 
The  light  that  gilds  them  is  the  hope  profound 
That  whispers,  All  is  well. 

Oh !  as  I  watch  the  Autumn  fires  arise, 

And  spread  in  sweeping  splendor  through  the  west, 
My  soul  is  sure,  beyond  the  purple  skies 
That  there  is  perfect  rest. 


MY  FLOWERS. 

I  HAVE  three  flowers  as  fresh  and  bright 

As  ever  heart  could  wear  ; 
A  Morning-glory  and  a  Rose, 

A  Lily  white  and  fair. 
They  cluster  round  me  in  the  morn, 

With  petals  opening  sweet ; 
And  the  first  sounds  that  greet  mine  ear 

Are  sounds  of  little  feet. 


390  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

My  Rose  has  large  brown  eyes  that  look 

As  limpid  as  a  stream  : 
They  always  wear  a  softened  light 

As  tender  as  a  dream  ; 
They  make  me  think  of  moonlights  past, 

When  youth  was  in  its  flush, 
Whose  waves  of  glory,  as  they  fell, 

Dropped  with  a  silver  hush. 

Her  smile  is  beautiful  and  rare, 

Toned  down  from  childish  mirth, 
Just  as  the  calm  uprising 

Of  a  star  above  the  earth  : 
Her  little  heart  is  so  mature, 

Her  love  so  warm  and  deep, 
I  sometimes  think  my  peerless  Rose 

I  may  not  always  keep. 

My  Morning-glory  has  a  face 

Just  like  an  April  day  : 
The  sunlight  catches  up  the  rain, 

And  dries  it  all  away  ; 
It  ripples  into  winsome  smiles, 

It  sparkles  into  glee, 
Yet  has  an  earnest  depth  behind, 

That  loving  eyes  may  see. 

My  Lily  with  her  baby  hands 

Is  clinging  to  my  fold  ; 
The  sunshine  on  her  silken  hair 

Makes  shining  waves  of  gold  ; 
Her  eyes  are  fringed  forget-me-nots, 

Just  shaking  off  the  dew, 
As  if  remembrance  of  the  skies 

Had  left  its  trace  of  blue. 


MBS.    CAROLINE  E.    WHITON.  391 

I  have  three  clustering  flowers  on  earth 

That  blossom  fresh  and  fair  ; 
And  two  I  would  not  dare  describe, 

Unless  it  were  in  prayer  : 
Yet  sometimes,  when  the  others  lead 

My  Lily  unto  me, 
I  think  that  those  two  lilies  crowned 

May  crown  these  other  three. 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

AT  the  open  window  I  sit,  and  see 

The  gorgeous  clouds  that  are  passing  by  ; 

And  the  soft  south  air  is  bringing  to  me 

Perfumes  as  sweet  as  in  June  buds  lie  ; 

Even  the  bees  are  humming  to-day  ; 

And  I  catch  the  sound  of  children  at  play. 

Did  I  not  see  the  changing  leaves 

Brilliant  in  coloring  as  the  sky, 

And  the  reapers  binding  their  golden  sheaves, 

I  should  say  the  Summer  had  not  gone  by : 

It  seems  as  if  Nature  had  paused  to  think, 

Before  it  should  reach  October's  brink. 

But,  with  every  breath  of  the  scented  breeze, 

There  is  rustling  down  a  withered  leaf; 

And  I  hear  the  sighing  among  the  trees, 

That  is  like  the  prelude  to  bitterest  grief ; 

And,  though  the  sun  shines  with  a  splendor  like  June, 

By  this  I  should  know  'tis  a  Fall  afternoon. 


392  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

At  the  open  window  I  sit,  and  see 

Clouds  that  are  passing,  hopes  that  are  past ; 

And  the  soft  south  air  is  bringing  to  me 

Memories  crowding  thick  and  fast ; 

And  some  of  the  dreams  I  recall  to-day 

Are  swept  like  the  withered  leaves  rustling  away. 

At  the  open  window  I  still  remain  ; 

And  my  soul  is  vainly  trying  to  see, 

Over  the  losses,  on  to  the  gain  ; 

Knowing  how  much  that  gain  would  be. 

Teach  me,  oh  teach  me,  how  to  wait 

For  the  Summer  so  endless,  —  Heaven  so  great ! 


THE  LOST  VERSE. 

I  W.AS  writing  a  poem  the  other  day, 
When  one  of  the  verses  slipped  away. 
I  have  searched  every  corner  of  my  brain 
For  the  missing  verse,  but  all  in  vain  ! 
Not  a  word  or  a  rhyme  can  I  recall : 
It  fell  just  as  snow-flakes  sometimes  fall, 
That  are  melted  before  they  reach  the  ground  ; 
And  so,  as  snow-flakes,  are  never  found. 

The  snow-flakes  form  into  drops  of  rain : 
Perhaps  the  verse  is  still  in  my  brain, 
But  melted,  by  some  mysterious  heat, 
Into  a  vapor,  yet  just  as  complete  ; 
Perhaps  an  angel,  when  passing  by, 
Breathed  it  away  while  breathing  a  sigh  : 
But  the  poem  I  write  will  never  be 
Finished  without  that  verse  to  me. 


MBS.    CAROLINE  E.    WHITON.  393 

Oh,  this  is  but  one  of  my  losses  here  : 

I  have  lost  many  thoughts  that  were  shining  clear  ; 

I  have  looked  at  my  treasure,  and  found  —  the  rust ; 

I  have  gathered  my  dreams,  but  they  fell  to  dust ; 

I  have  seen  the  flowers  belonging  to  Spring 

Withered  before  their  blossoming. 

I  have  seen  all  these  losses  !     Is  it  in  vain  ? 

Shall  I  reap  in  a  harvest  of  tares  —  or  of  grain  ? 


Yet  nothing-  is  lost.     'Tis  our  dimness  of  sight : 
What  looks  like  the  shadow  may  still  be  the  light ; 
What  seems  in  the  dark  like  our  heaviest  pain, 
When  brought  to  the  light,  may  be  glorious  gain. 
What  if  the  angel  breathing  the  sigh 
Carried  my  verse  up  —  up  to  the  sky? 
Oh  !  when  Life's  poem  perfected  shall  be, 
All  of  the  missing  lines  shall  we  not  see, 
And  reap  in  one  harvest  —  eternity  ? 


OUR     COUNTRY. 

HAIL  !  men  of  the  North  so  loyal  and  true, 
The  strength  of  the  Union  is  vested  in  you  : 
With  courage  your  armor,  and  right  for  your  shield, 
Face  traitor  and  foe,  if  you  die  on  the  field  : 
Strike,  freeman  !  the  flag  that  waves  over  your  head 
Is  red  as  your  heart's  blood,  and  white  as  your  dead  ; 
But  let  it  wave  not  o'er  a  nation  of  slaves  : 
Better,  O  men  of  the  North,  in  your  graves ! 


394  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

O  flag  of  our  Union,  raised  proudly  on  high  ! 
We  welcome  your  rainbows  that  cross  in  our  sky  ; 
But  the  foe  who  has  trampled  it  down  to  the  ground, 
Let  him  lie  in  the  place  where  the  relics  are  found. 
Up,  men  of  the  North  !  ye  are  mighty  and  strong : 
Strike  boldly  to  crush  down  oppression  and  wrong  ; 
Let  the  boom  of  the  cannon  be  Slaveiy's  knell ; 
Strike,  freeman !  for  country  and  honor  as  well. 


Here,  men  of  the  North,  have  brave  men  been  bred  ! 
The  pilgrims,  your  fathers,  are  honored,  though  dead  ; 
And  the  blood  you  inherit  you  will  not  disgrace  : 
Wipe  the  dust,  O  New  England  !  from  Liberty's  face  ; 
Strike  !  the  Lord  God  of  battle  will  hinder  you  not ; 
Leave  the  page  of  our  history  free  from  a  blot ; 
Leave  the  stars  on  our  banner  undimmed  as  our  fame  ; 
O  men  of  New  England  !  wash  out  every  stain. 


Hail,  men  of  New  England  !  the  flag  you  uphold, 

O'er  a  nation  of  freemen,  oh,  let  it  unfold  ! 

Let  the  crimson  that  stripes  it  foretell,  in  the  sky, 

The  flush,  in  the  East,  of  Liberty  nigh  : 

Then  white,  in  the  dawn  of  our  Country's  release, 

Shall  the  silvery  stars  light  the  banner  of  Peace  ; 

And  the  waves  of  our  freedom,  as  white  on  the  shore 

Swelling  up  into  Heaven,  be  broken  no  more. 


MRS.   GASOLINE  E.    WHITON.  395 


WE  ARE   THREE. 

BEAT,  O  November  rain  !  to-night  I  cannot  sleep  : 
Within  my  throbbing  heart  is  stirred  a  memory  deep  ; 
I  live  again  those  years,  when,  sharing  joy  and  pain, 
We  three  beneath  one  roof  were  listening  to  the  rain  ; 
But  now  we  are  but  two,  and  we  two  live  apart : 
Beat,  O  November  rain  !  to  sobbing  of  my  heart. 

Beat,  O  November  rain  !  in  youth's  seraphic  hope, 
We  only  saw  the  light,  where  now  we  blindly  grope  ; 
We  only  saw  the  sea  in  glittering  surges  swell, 
Where  now  its  turbid  waves  are  beating  a  farewell ; 
O  youth,  for  ever  dead  !  I  measure  back,  and  see, 
By  this  great  sense  of  pain,  how  dearly  loved  we  three. 

Beat,  O  November  rain  !  I  cannot  sleep  to-night : 
One,  weary  of  the  strife,  went  drifting  out  of  sight ; 
On  her  majestic  peace  we  looked  with  blinding  eyes, 
Yet  knew  in  skies  afar  she  saw  the  white  dawn  rise. 

0  bridge  that  she  has  crossed  !  O  changing,  restless 

sea  ! 
Only  us  two  are  left,  and  yet  we  number  three. 

Beat,  O  November  rain  !  we  surely  number  three  ; 
For  Death  is  but  a  strain  of  minor  harmony : 

1  listen  as  to  hear  an  echo  from  that  shore 
Where  Love's  celestial  song  is  rising  evermore  ; 
Where  neither  sea  nor  change  can  keep  us  three  apart, 
And  Heaven  shall  more  than  still  this  sobbing  of  my 

heart. 


396  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


MY  NEIGHBOR. 

MY  neighbor's  voice  is  very  sweet, 
My  neighbor's  words  are  very  true  ; 

She  never  seems  to  have  to  beat 
Against  the  tide,  as  many  do. 

Her  ways  are  winning  as  her  face  ; 
She  wears  a  look  of  high  repose, 

As  though  her  soul  had  conquered  space, 
And  lost  —  its  woes. 


Her  eyes  are  full  of  softened  light, 
Her  smiles  are  gentle  and  serene  ; 

And  something  stately  in  her  height 
Gives  certain  stateliness  of  mien. 

Her  thoughts,  I  know,  are  sanctified, 

Like  one  whose  doubtings  can  but  cease, 

Because  she  sees  the  other  side, 
And  knows  its  peace. 


Her  nature  is  so  purely  calm, 

I  often  envy  its  repose, 
Like  the  perfections  of  a  psalm 

That  leaves  us  holier  at  its  close  ; 
That,  written  on  the  grandest  key 

And  sung  with  grandest  words  and  choir, 
Inspires  us,  with  its  majesty, 

To  something  higher. 


MBS.   CAROLINE  E.    WHITON.  397 

To  me,  whose  changes  are  as  great 

As  Summer's  sky  and  Winter's  woe, 
This  calm  is  a  mysterious  state 

Past  comprehending  ;  but  I  know 
Her  friendship  is  a  steadfast  thing, 

Her  love  an  offering  as  complete 
As  when  the  flowers  their  odors  fling, 
Yet  still  are  sweet. 


I  know,  too,  that  her  soul  is  high  ; 

I  see  it  shining  on  her  face, 
And,  like  a  halo  from  the  sky, 

Invests  her  with  a  tender  grace  ; 
And,  waiting,  sometime  she  will  touch 

That  "  other  side  "  we  now  foretell ; 
And  so,  because  she  "  loved  so  much," 
All  will  be  well. 


MRS.    JULIA    VAN  NESS    WHIPPLE. 


THE  VOICE  AMID  THE  TREES. 

S  I  sit  beside  my  window, 

On  this  summer  eve  so  fair, 
Oft  I  hear,  amid  the  stillness, 

Whisperings  borne  upon  the  air, 
Gently  swelling,  and  then  dying 

'Mid  the  leaves  on  yonder  tree  : 
Sweet  the  words,  though  mostly  sad  ones, 
That  they  whisper  unto  me  ! 


Softly  sighing,  —  now  it  brings  me 

Cherished  memories  of  the  past, 
Sunny  childhood's  happy  hours, 

Girlhood's  joys,  —  too  bright  to  last. 
Dear  loved  voices,  long  since  silent, 

Seem  to  speak  again  to  me, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmuring 

'Mid  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree. 


MRS.  JULIA    VAN  NESS   WHIFFLE.         399 

As  it  speaks,  my  tears  are  falling 

For  the  dearly  loved  and  gone  ; 
And  the  shadows  seem  to  darken, 

That  across  my  path  are  thrown  ; 
Still  your  whispering  !   O  sad  voices, 

'Mid  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree, 
If  you  bear  with  you  no  healing 

For  those  memories  sad  to  me. 


Hark  !  again  the  voice  is  speaking ; 

Soft  and  gently  sweet  'tis  now ; 
And  methinks  the  wings  of  angels 

Gently  fan  my  burning  brow. 
Why  so  grieving,  so  despairing? 

Why  so  weary  on  thy  road? 
Think,  O  child  !  thy  path  of  sorrow 

Is  to  bring  thee  closer  God. 


Dry  thy  tears  for  the  departed ; 

Weep  not  for  the  living  dead  ; 
Strong  and  firm  be  in  thy  duty  ; 

Follow  where  thy  Saviour  led. 
When  sad  memories  throng  around  you, 

Meet  them  not  with  murmuring  sigh  ; 
Listen  to  the  voice  that's  with  you, 

Saying,  —  "  Fear  not :  it  is  I." 


Thus  it  is  those  gentle  voices, 
'Mid  the  leaves  on  yonder  tree, 

On  this  soft  sweet  summer  evening, 
Have  been  whispering  unto  me. 


400  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 


WINTER. 

AHA  !  Old  King  with  the  hoary  brow, 

You  are  making  yourself  right  busy  now  ; 

You  have  shaken  your  locks  o'er  mountain  and  dale, 

From  the  loftiest  peak  to  the  lowliest  vale. 

Old  Boreas  obeys  your  kingly  call, 
Ajdd  comes  from  his  bleak  old  northern  hall : 
He  makes  himself  heard  by  rich  and  poor, 
At  the  lowly  cot  and  the  palace-door. 

But,  nevertheless,  ye  frosty  twain 
Bring  comfort  and  pleasure  in  your  train  : 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  the  gay  sleigh-ride, 
And  the  calmer  joys  of  the  fireside  ! 

The  fair  young  belle  bails  with  delight 
Your  drifts  of  snow  so  soft  and  white  ; 
And  joy  is  seen  in  her  merry  glance, 
For  this  is  the  time  for  the  merry  dance. 

And  the  schoolboy  shouts  aloud  with  glee, 
Oh,  the  Winter,  the  Winter's  the  time  for  me  ! 
And  he  builds  himself  a  snowy  fort, 
Oh  !  this  is  the  time  for  the  schoolboy's  sport. 

But  we  must  not  think  that  all  is  mirth  ; 
There  is  many  a  cold  and  cheerless  hearth  : 
Oh !  forget  not  the  words  once  spoken  to  thee, 
"  As  ye  do  unto  them,  so  ye  do  unto  Me." 


MKS.  JULIA    VAN  NESS   WHIFFLE.         401 


EASTER   SUNDAY. 

ALL  hail !  great  Queen  of  days, 

Type  of  that  glorious  morn 
When  death  shall  at  the  last  yield  up 

His  captives  held  so  long  ; 
When,  from  the  grave's  cold  bed, 

The  awakened  sleepers  rise 
To  join  the  rapturous  song  that  bursts 

Triumphant  from  the  skies. 


The  Lenten  Fast  is  o'er  ; 

The  Church  bids  one  and  all 
To  hasten  to  her  holy  courts, 

To  keep  High  Festival. 
Thy  call,  dear  mother  Church, 

We  joyfully  obey, 
At  Advent,  Christmas,  Lenten  Time, 

And  glorious  Easter  Day. 


We  dry  our  falling  tears, 

And  join,  with  glad  accord, 
The  song  triumphant  that  proclaims 

The  Church's  risen  Lord  : 
Christ  from  the  dead  is  raised, 

And  death's  dread  power  is  o'er  ; 
The  grave  henceforth  is  but  the  path 

That  leads  to  heaven's  bright  shore. 
26 


402  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

And  \ve,  his  followers  here, 

Need  dread  that  path  no  more  ; 
Knowing,  though  dark  may  seem  the  way, 

Our  Lord  has  passed  before. 
Children  of  his  clear  Church, 

Bought  with  his  precious  blood, 
Only  our  bodies  sleep  in  earth, 

Our  spirits  rest  with  God. 


Gladly,  O  blessed  Lord  ! 

We  follow  on  thy  way  : 
Oh  !  tune  our  hearts  to  gladsome  praise 

On  this  bright  Easter  Day. 
Be  with  us  while  we  live, 

Be  with  us  when  we  die  ; 
Raise  us  on  Resurrection  morn, 

To  reign  with  thee  on  high  ! 


S.   ADAMS    WIGGTN'. 


L  O  V  E. 


HIS  morn  I  wandered  in  the  wood. 

And  asked  a  wild-bird  free, 
Where  dwells  true  love,  —  the  highest  good  ; 
And  he  carolled  thus  to  me  : 


Love  is  thy  hoi}-  Paraclete. 

To  comfort  and  sustain  ; 
To  make  thy  life  with  joy  replete, 

And  Eden  bloom  again. 

Love  is  the  harp  of  David,  sweet, 
To  calm  your  wild  despair, 

And  lay  your  soul  at  Jesus'  feet, 
An  offering  pure  and  fair. 

Love  is  the  "  Holy  of  Holies"  fane. 

Where  burns  the  sacred  flame 
That  frees  the  heart  from  every  stain 

Of  sorrow,  guilt,  or  shame. 


404  POETS   OF  PORTSMOUTH. 

Love  is  the  bearing  of  the  cross, 

Christ's  easy  yoke  to  wear, 
To  count  for  him  all  things  but  dross, 

So  you  his  "  crown  "  may  wear. 

For  Love  is  God,  and  God  is  Love  ; 

In  him  find  all  thy  rest : 
Centre  thy  hopes  on  things  above, 

And  Love  shall  fill  thy  breast. 

Love  wings  thy  flight  to  realms  of  light ; 

Love  opes  the  "  gate"  for  thee  ; 
Love  decks  in  robes  of  spotless  white, 

With  palms  of  viclory. 

This  is  the  song  the  wild-bird  free 

Warbled  in  tuneful  strains  : 
My  soul  was  cheered,  bent  was  the  knee  ; 

My  heart  the  song  retains. 


VICTORY. 

ON  to  victory  !  is  the  watchword  : 

Hear  the  pasan  grand 
Throbbing  at  the  hearts  of  freemen, 

Ringing  through  the  land  ! 

On  to  victory  !  friends  and  brothers, 

Gird  ye  for  the  fight : 
Our  proud  flag  shall  float  for  ever 

With  its  starry  light. 


S.  ADAMS   WIG  GIN.  405 

On  to  victory  !     Right  must  triumph 

Over  all  its  foes  ; 
Freedom's  onward  march  shall  usher 

Peace  and  sweet  repose. 


Boston:   Printed  by  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


